


The Eternal Summer

by TimmyJaybird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 41,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set with the "what if" idea of Sansa leaving with the Hound during Blackwater. Intended to show the long, grueling journey that the two would face once fleeing the capital, and finding refuge, a life, and revenge in distant lands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”

Outside the world was alight with wildfire. Sansa stared at the blood man, his white armor gleaming an eerie green as sparks shot up towards the black sky. The blood on his face was almost black, his armor stained as well. Even his white cloak.

Sansa felt her heart beating wildly, horrified. He was Joffrey’s _dog_ , the king had to be behind this. Had he sent Clegane to test her, to test her loyalty?

“I’ll be safe here,” she whispered. “Stannis won’t hurt me.”

The Hound grabbed her, grip iron and steel and painful, and growled out in a visceral voice, “ _Look at me!_ ” Sansa flinched away, wishing to hide, but having nowhere to go. He smelled of wine and blood and death, his hair sticking to him in sweaty, bloody mats. “Stannis is a killer. The Lannisters are killers. Your father was a killer.” Sansa tensed at the mention of her father, wanting to protest that lord Eddard Stark had never _enjoyed_ killing, that it was simply his duty, but she dared not speak. “Your brother is a killer. Your sons will be killers someday. The world is built by killers, so you’d better get used to looking at them.”

Something in his eyes relaxed Sansa, a sadness that leaked through the weakness the wine caused. Something that had been smoldering and growing inside him a long time, fleeting in those dark irises for a second.

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispered, her breath catching in her throat.

“No little bird,” he said, releasing one of her arms and reaching up, touching a few strands of her auburn hair. “I won’t hurt you.”

He lingered a moment, and Sansa thought he might try to kiss her. She reached up, touched his blood and leather covered fingers, gripped them in her hand. _He won’t hurt me._

He tried to pull his hand back, and Sansa released his fingers, took the hand that had cradled them and held it to her chest. “Wait,” she said softly, after he had taken the few steps to her doorway. “Please...please take me with you.”

Sansa didn’t care where he was going, but truly, it must be better than King’s Landing. The city was burning, and if they managed to win, she would still be stuck behind with Joffrey, only now without the Hound to help shield her.

And if they lost, she did not know what Stannis would bring.

The Hound nodded, reached his hand out. She took it, not stopping to pick up a single thing. He led her down the halls of her tower, keeping her behind him, unsheathing his sword and having it at the ready. The tower was deserted until they reached the halls, and then they found men. Mostly on the Lannister side, scrambling one way or the other. Some running to the battle, some quickly away.

The chaos left them unnoticed.

“Stay close,” the Hound said, and Sansa nodded. She followed him through the running men, off towards the stables. Inside she could still hear the cracking of the wood on the ships as they burnt and sunk, the endless screaming of men.

The few horses left were panicking, all except one. The Hound’s black stallion, Stranger, stood stoic as stone. The Hound led him out, gave his muzzle a gentle stroke, then jumped up. Sansa saw small saddle bags already attached, and realized the Hound had put more than some drunken thought into this.

The Stallion took a few steps towards her, and Clegane reached his hand down. He pulled her up and settled her in front of him. One hand held the reins, the other wrapped around her waist, gripping her firmly. Sansa held onto his arm as the stallion trotted off. The iron gate had been deserted, the men being pulled into the battle at Blackwater, and Sansa was shocked at how easy it was to simply _walk_ out.

“Did they all go to the battle?” she asked as Stranger picked up to a gallop the moment the were outside the gate.

“Aye. And few will come back.”

Sansa pinched her lips shut, offering a silent prayer to the seven, for the safety of the men who _didn’t_ deserve to die. If the wildfire took the Lannisters though, she would not mind.

Finally, she asked for their protection as they rode into the night.

They did not stop as the night wore on. Sansa grew weary, her eyes heavy. She slumped forward, struggling to keep herself awake and upright. She felt rhe Hound guide her back, lean her against his chest. Neither spoke, but Sansa relaxed against him and closed her eyes, catching a few moments of brief, dark sleep.

She did not know how the Hound went all night as he did, or into the next day. Her eyes opened around dawn, to see the sky changing into it’s many wild colors through the tree tops.

“Where is the road?” she asked.

“We’re not on it,” he said, looking down at her now that she was awake, stealing a glimpse at her sterling blue eyes. “The King’s Road is no safe place for us.”

Before the light could rise completely, he halted the horse and dismounted. He told Sansa to stretch her legs and piss, he wasn’t about to stop again.

She did, jumping down and nearly falling. He ahd already walked away, and she caught herself carefully, looking around. She walked in the opposite direction, trying to get as far away as possible, wanting to retain a shred of decency.

Once she was done, she attempted to straighten her skirts. Her dress itself was not full, and she tore off her leggings underneath completely. They were warm, but torn and dirty now. She left them, walking back, trying to find Stranger within all the trees.

She cursed, feeling as if she had gotten turned around, but not wanting to call out. She leaned against a tree, trying to clear her head, and in that moment felt a hand cover her mouth. She yelped into it, but it was only the Hound, she knew from the voice that scolded her for going so far.

“A lady needs privacy,” she said as she followed him, lifting her dress as she stepped over rocks and roots.

“A lady doesn’t run away from her future husband,” the Hound pointed out as they reached Stranger. He mounted, and Sansa looked up at him, eyes hard.

“If her future husband was a good man, maybe. Good men don’t have their future wives beaten.”

Neither moved for a moment, before the Hound gave her a silent nod and reached her, pulling her up into the saddle. He held her tight in his one arm and they were off, not stopping again until the sun was high, to break their fast late on a little bit of hard bread and cheese.

When night fell again, the Hound called a stop until dawn. Sansa was relieved, she didn’t want to sleep in the saddle again, though the prospect of sleeping on the cold, hard ground was none too appealing.

“Go find some wood for a fire,” he said as he helped her off Stranger. She watched as he took his bed roll off the horse, than began brushing him down, giving him reassuring pats, even talking in a soft, raspy whisper. Sansa turned and hurried into the dark, afraid if he caught her watching he would be angry. But she had never sen him gentle to anyone, only his horse, that wild beast that had kicked and bit more stable boys than if a Lioness had been released in the stables.

Sansa picked up a few pieces of wood, unsure if they would work. She _thought_ the wood needed to be dry, but she wasn’t sure if any piece would do. And in the dark, she feared when she reached down she’d find a snake instead of wood.

It took her far longer than it should have, and when she was stumbling back in the direction she hoped the Hound was, she could barely balance the pieces she had. Most were thin more twigish than anything, but she couldn’t find anything else. When she finally emerged from a clump of exceptionally dense trees, she saw Stranger nibbling at the ground, the Hound with his back against a tree, sititng on his bed roll in just the dim moonlight, drinking from a wineskin.

“Took you long enough,” he said, setting the wineskin down and getting up. He looked at the mess of wood in her arms and gave an annoyed grunt, but took them from her anyway, kneeling down on the ground to try and start a fire.

Sansa stepped back, finding what remained of a stump, and sitting on it. It took the Hound a few tries, but when the fire took, Sansa thought he might jump out of his skin. He was quick to retreat from it, back to his bed roll and his sour wine. Sansa watched him take a long pull from it, and wondered if it was making him warm. When she drank wine too quickly, it made her head fuzzy, but her tummy warm. And at that moment, she was freezing. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the fire, at the crackling bright flames, and wished she could have them under her skin. In nothing but her dress, she cold wind bit through her quickly, leaving her almost numb. She knew laying on the ground would only make her worse too, and she despaired at knowing her night would be spent sitting on that stump, trying to sleep in her own lap.

The Hound watched her across the fire. He had sobered up since leaving King’s Landing, and all he could wonder is what the hell he intended to do with the Stark girl. Had he left on his own, he would have no trouble striking out somewhere, _anywhere_ and disappearing. But with her, things were complicated. She was another mouth to feed, nearly useless as her horrible choice in tinder had shown, and was slowing him down. Yet, as he watched her shiver, he didn’t want to leave her there, in the cold. The little bird had something about her that he liked, besides her pretty face, and had she been left at King’s Landing he could only imagine the horrors that would come to her.

“Come here,” he said, and she looked up, stared at him through the flames. He thought he might have to call to her again, and grit his teeth in frustration, but she moved, albeit slowly. She stood, drifted around the fire, and stood a few feet from him, looking at him. He set the wineskin aside, gesturing to the spot next to him. Sansa hesitated a moment, but the cold outweighed her caution, and she settled down on the bed roll next to him, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them. It was much more comfortable than the stump, adn closer to the fire. She could feel the heat rising off the Hound, and wanted to bury herself against him, yet at the same time was horrified to even think that.

He gave her no choice though. He reached over, pulled her closer, against his side, let his cloak drape over the both of them. He muttered something about her freezing to death, then grabbed his wineskin and took another pull. Sansa said nothing, and he offered it to her. She hesitated a moment, then took it, taking a few swallows. He could see her throat move in the firelight, pale and soft, and he wanted to feel it, the blood underneath and the skin between his lips and teeth.

When she handed it back he took an extra long drink, to chase the thoughts away. He felt Sansa relax against him, lean into him.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and he looked at her.

“For what? It’s just wine.” He took another drink, then set it aside, wanting to make sure he had more for the coming nights.

“For getting me away from Joffrey.” She looked up at him, felt a little dizzy. The wine was _strong_ and she had barely eaten since they had left the city. It had gone straight to her head. “You’re kinder than most would believe, ser.”

“I’m no _ser_ ,” he said, gripping her chin with his hand and tilting it up to look at him. “Knights aren’t dogs, girl.”

She didn’t fight him, didn’t cry out that he was hurting her. Instead she looked at him, really looked at him. His eyes, his face, his scars. He expected her to turn away, close her eyes, and her stare was enough to make him want to squirm. Finally her looked away, and when he looked back her eyes were on the fire.

They sat up in silence for a bit longer, before the Hound lay down. Sansa moved to return to her stump, but he held her arm firmly, guiding her down next to him, her back pressed against his chest. One of his arms draped over her, and he muttered she wouldn’t freeze this way. Sansa thanked him, closed her eyes, and fell into an exhausted sleep, feeling dizzy and oddly secure with the Hound at her back.

He awoke first, just as the sun crested in the sky. The dark had faded to a dawn gray, but the sky was still dark. Sansa was sleeping beneath his arm, warm and soft. Her hair drifted past his face, still smelled sweet and flowery. Still drowsy, Clegane nuzzled into it, breathed deep, felt her stir just slightly, shift so she was pressed tighter to him. His mind began to sharpen, and quickly he shifted back, blinking back sleep. He could feel his cock straining under his pants and armor, wanting to be pressed against her. He cursed, releasing her and standing up, leaning against the tree behind him. She still didn’t wake, just lay there, sweet and innocent and pretty, so easily attainable.

He ran his hand over his face, blocking her from view. _Seven hells,_ he thought, and turned away, walking off into the trees, pulling one glove off with his teeth, ready to relieve the tension in him so he could think clearly.

When he returned Sansa was awake, sitting on the bed roll. When she saw him she smiled, sweet and innocent and lovely. The Hound silently cursed.

“Good morning,” she said, standing up. She smoothed down her dress and her hair, missing a leaf that had blown into it in the night. The Hound stepped close to her, reaching out and plucking it from her auburn tresses. She looked at it, then just smiled at him again.

The broke their fast briefly, then mounted Stranger and were off again. Sansa seemed more comfortable in the saddle with him now, clinging less. She wasn’t a bad rider, but Stranger was a wild stallion, and he left her unnerved.

“Where are we going?” she asked, looking around at the rising soon and trees.

“Maidenpool,” he said, “or the Saltpans. Where ever we can find a ship that isn’t infested with Lions.”

“A ship?”

“Yes. You’re not safe here, little bird. The further we are from this bloody kingdom, the better. We’ll take a ship to the free cities.”

He felt Sansa tremble a little.

“We could just go to my brother,” she said, but the Hound only shook his head. Honestly, he didn’t trust Robb Stark to keep his sister safe. The boy was big headed and green as spring grass. He may have shown some strength in battle so far, but Clegane knew his time would come. The Lannisters always paid their debts, and to Robb they owed a big one. And now, the Hound was sure they owed him one. All the more reason to be far from Westeros.

Sansa was quiet as they rode now, her smile gone. She had hoped he might take her home. To Winterfell, or to Robb. But she couldn’t say she was very shocked that the Hound had no such intentions. At least she would be far away from Joffrey.

Besides, the Hound wouldn’t hurt her. No one would, so long as he lived. She believed his promise that night in her bed chambers. She would have never left if she hadn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

It took two more days of travel to reach Maidenpool. Each night Sansa slept against the Hound, little by little growing more comfortable with his body against hers. But each morning she woke and he was always gone, off in the trees.

With the town in sight, Sansa was relieved. The Hound had pulled the hood of his cloak up, to hide his scars.

“Don’t speak to anyone,” he said. “The last thing we want is someone to realize you’re here.” He kept an arm around her firmly. She nodded, and they rode through the city, heading straight for the docks. He dismounted there, and handed Sansa Stranger’s reins. The horse grunted, exhaled unhappily, but didn’t move. Sansa watched the Hound disappear into the crowd, and suddenly felt so vulnerable. She thought for sure someone would stop and stare at her, but no one batted an eye. Confused, she looked down at herself, and realized how quickly she had become a mess. Her dress was dirty, torn around the hem. She felt her hair, wild wavez of auburn, never properly tamed from her sleep.

Stranger roamed a bit, despite Sansa pleading with him to stand still. The stallion ignored her, but never went very far.

When Clegane finally returned, he took the reins from her and led the horse at a brisk walk. Sansa tried to speak, but he ignored everything she said.

The ships she could see anchored at the docks were huge, large trading ships from all over the kingdom. She stared at them, at the different ornate details, depending on where the ship hailed from.

Clegane stopped in front of a large, dark wooden ship, a beautiful golden woman set at the bow, naked and curved like a flowered woman. A man was talking to him in a hushed voice, but Sansa could see as the Hound reached under his own cloak and dropped a large number of golden dragons into the man’s hand. The man looked at them, bit one, then shoved them into a pouch and took Stranger’s reins.

“Careful with that one,” the Hound said, giving Stranger a pat, “he’s bitten of plenty of fingers and ears these years.” He grabbed Sansa and lifted her off the horse, then took the small saddle bags and slung them over his shoulder. The man scowled, but led Stranger onto the ship, the Hound following, pulling Sansa along.

A young boy led them below deck when the man took Stranger further down to be secured. The Hound had purchased a room for them, albeit very tiny. There was one bed, and enough room for a chest or two, had they brought any. The boy left and the Hound latched the door, dropping the saddle bags on the floor.

Sansa looked around. It was dark, and she could hear the ship creak as everyone moved about. She sat down on the bed At least it was softer than the ground, but it was small. She would still have to press herself against the Hound every night.

Somehow, that idea wasn’t nearly as unsavory as she had thought it would be.

“You’re not to go anywhere without me,” he said, taking his cloak off. “You’re a little bird on a ship full of men, they’d have you in a heart beat.” _Especially if they knew you were still a maiden_.

Sansa nodded. Clegane walked over to the bed, pulling off his leather and mail, his gloves, and leaving them in a pile on the floor. He pulled his sword off, leaning that against the wall, and stretched out, closing his eyes.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Getting some real sleep. You should do the same. By the time you wake up, we’ll be at sea.”

Sansa hesitated, then lay down, her back to him. It took a moment for her to get her balance right, as he was on his back, but she managed.

Sansa awoke a few hours later, hearing the Hound rummaging around the room. He had put his boiled leather back on, but left the mail. His sword hung at his hip. She stood up and stretched, trying to calm her hair with her fingers. She could hear water hitting the ship, far off and faint, but still there. The thought made her thirsty, and she was reminded of just how hungry she was. Her stomach growled at her, and she blushed, noticing the Hound had looked at her.

He chuckled, much to hear relief, and unlatched the door. “Let’s go see about feeding you, little bird.”

The Hound found her some fruit, and himself some wine, and they settled into the small room, surrounded by some of the crew and a few of the other passengers. Most of them looked like men born and bred at the sea, but a few seemed there just for the ride, like she and the Hound.

And one woman stood out in her fine clothing, flanked by guards. She was drinking wine from a jeweled cup and laughing, her lips painted a rosy red.

The Hound saw Sansa looking at her. “Keep your eyes here, girl,” he said, “or you’ll get her attention.”

“Who is she?” Sansa asked, looking back at him and taking a bit out of an apple.

“Some Lysene trader,” he said, “taking her goods back to the free cities to make some gold. She probably has enough golden dragons from one visit to Westeros to build a real dragon.”

Sansa wondered why she would be squeezed in her with all the common folk, but she seemed to be enjoying herself with a few of the sailors, running her fingers up their arms and batting her eyelashes. Sansa tried to not look at her, but she kept sneaking glances back, until finally when she turned, the woman was looking directly at her. Sansa blushed and turned back quickly, looking down at her apple core and trying to seem amused by it.

She didn’t hear her approach in her silken slippers, or the movement of her fine, thin gown, but she felt her long nails on her shoulder through her dirty dress.

“Hello child,” the woman said, smiling, and Sansa looked up, blushing. Across from her, the Hound shot her a scowl, more than annoyed that she had brought attention to them.

“H-hello,” Sansa stammered out, watching as the woman’s long, luscions blonde waves found every bit of light in the room and shined bright. The woman sat down gracefully next to her.

“You’re a pretty thing, what are you doing out at sea?” Sansa looked at the Hound, nervous.

“Just getting away from the war,” the Hound said, “Westeros is no place to be right now.”

“Oh, I quite agree,” she said, adjusting one of the necklaces that lay on her neck. “Quite the mess there. It’s hard to get from one city to the next, unless by ship. Those roads have gone to the dogs.” She looked back at Sansa. “What’s your name, child?”

“Sansa,” she said, and she felt the Hound kick her leg.

“That’s a lovely name,” the woman said. “I’m Sallah.” One of her guards called to her then, and she turned and spoke in a tongue Sansa didn’t recognize. Then she turned back, still smiling. “I’m sorry little Sansa, I have business I must get to. It was a pleasure.” She leaned forward, kissed both of Sansa’s cheeks, then stood and walked away, leaving the room with her guards flanking her.

“What were you thinking?” the Hound growled. “You might as well have flown your damned Direwolf for her to see.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa whispered, and the Hound just scowled and refilled his cup of wine.

That night, Sansa lay in the bed, trying to sleep. She could feel every wave hit the ship, and it was making her dizzy. Her stomach felt queasy, and she had to clutch onto the bed to make sure she wasn’t falling. The Hound was asleep next to her, in the dark. It had been dark when he crawled into bed, having sent her to the room while he checked on Stranger, and telling her to leave no candles of lanterns lit. He didn’t want anyone to know she was in there without him.

She sat up, slowly, careful to not wake him. Her bare feet found the floor, and she crept to the door, pulling the latch down. She waited, holding her breath, but the Hound didn’t stir.

She snuck out of the room, trailing her hand along the wall as she walked to keep her balance. She ascended what felt like an eternity of stairs to get to the deck.

Up top, it seemed deserted. A few men worked through the night, but they paid her no mind. She walked over to the railing, looking out at the sea, seeing nothing but water all around her. Her head spun more.

“You should be sleeping, sweetling.” Sansa turned, bracing herself on the railing, came face to face with Sallah. Sansa was pale, and Sallah’s face dropped. She reached out, touched her cheek, her forehead. She was clammy, but not hot. “Has the sea gotten to you?”

“Yes,” Sansa admitted, realizing the air was not helping as she had hoped.

“It did the same to me at first. You’ll get used to it. And it won’t take long for us to reach Qarth. From there, if you travel on, you can go by horse. Though the sea is always faster.” She smiled. “Tell me, sweetling, are you alright?”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked, speaking slowly, taking deep breaths, trying to keep her tummy calm.

“That man you’re with, I can smell the danger on him. Say the word, and he won’t trouble you child. My guards are quick and silent.” She smiled so sweetly, and Sansa realized in just a few words, she could be free of the Hound, forever.

“I’m fine,” she said, gripping the railing. “He’s... he’s a good man, underneath his rage. If the seven would calm it, he would be a pleasure I’m sure.” It was true, she had asked the Seven to calm the rage within him, to soothe whatever still burned. He had saved her many times, had shielded her from Joffrey, had taken her away from King’s Landing, without asking for a thing from her. She had no reason to fear him, he wouldn’t hurt her. Nor would he let anyone.

“As you say,” she said. Just then someone came rushing out onto the deck, and Sansa recognized the Hound in a heartbeat. He wore nothing but his boots and pants, his sword hanging at his hip. He saw her and rushed over.

“What were you thinking?” he growled, ignoring the Lysene woman and grabbing Sansa’s arm. “Didn’t I tell you not to go anywhere without me?”

“I didn’t feel good,” Sansa said, still queasy and dizzy.

“The child id ill from the sea,” Sallah said. “She must have thought the air would help. I thought so in my youth. Her stomach will harden in time.” The Hound just looked at her, then back to Sansa. “It’s no shock anyway, a wolf is not meant for the water.”

Sansa’s blood turned cold, and she saw the Hound stiffen. He released her arm, turned back to the trader, his hand on the pommel of his sword. She laughed though, waving a pretty hand at him.

“Relax yourself Hound, I have no interest in this war, other than it be done. The girl and you will have safe passage on my ship, so long as I breathe.”

Sansa wanted to ask so many things. Her ship? How did she know? Was it Sansa’s slip or the Hound’s scars? But in that moment she turned, gripping the railing of the ship, and retched into the ocean, unable to calm herself any longer. The Hound turned and was quick to grab her long hair, holding it back as she coughed, his other arm on her waist, holding her steady. Her knuckles turned white as she grasped the railing, her stomach rejecting everything she felt she had ever eaten in her life.

When she calmed she slumped forward, and the Hound had to tighten his grip on her. He pulled her back, falling to the deck himself, Sansa collapsing in his lap, resting against his bare chest. Sallah knelt down, pushing hair out of her face.

“Poor thing,” she said, “I bet she’s never been on a ship. She needs some sleep. I’ll send for my own nurse to give her something to help with her stomach.” The Hound said nothing, just cradled Sansa gently, his eyes alight with worry.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sansa awoke, she didn’t know what day it was. She could barely remember when she last awoke. She yawned, rubbed her eyes, realized she was alone in the cabin. She sat up, didn’t feel that queasy sickness in her tummy. Carefully, she let her feet touch the floor, stood, went and lit a candle sitting off in the corner. She didn’t know if the sun was up or not, and feared leaving for what the Hound would say.

Vaguely, she remembered leaving the room and being on deck in the night. She reached up, touched her hair, felt the Hound’s hands in her memory holding it, the cold railing in her hands, the burning acid in her throat.

She had been sea sick, yes, that was it. She blushed, suddenly so embarrassed. The door moved then, creaked open, and she turned. Clegane walked in, followed by Sallah, who had her beautiful golden hair decorated with flowers tucked into her loose braid.

“You’re up,” she said, and went to reach for her, but the Hound was quicker. He was on Sansa before she could exhale, touching her cheeks gently, looking into her eyes. Her skin was no longer clammy, her eyes bright. “You gave us quite a fright,” Sallah said, moving closer, touching her hair. “Had Sandor not had a hold on you, you may have fallen right into the sea.”

Sansa looked at him, but he still had this concerned look on his face. “Thank you,” she said, cheeks still rosy. She was so embarrassed, to have lost her stomach in front of both of them.

“You slept quite a time child,” Sallah said, “all through the night, and most of the day. The night will be here soon. Come, let’s get you cleaned up. I bet you’d like a new dress.”

Sansa looked at the Hound, but he gave her a nod, and she smiled and followed Sallah out of the room. Sallah’s chambers took up half of the level, at the very far end. She had rich rugs, plump cushions on every chair, rooms as if she lived on this ship.

“I do,” she said as Sansa asked. “My life is at sea. I go where the trade winds blow me.” She beckoned Sansa toward a large, metal tub. A girl was filling it with boiled sea water, another dropping scented oils into it. Sallah was behind Sansa, working on the lacing of her gown. “I bath will make you feel so much better. My girls here will make sure you are clean and relaxed.” She tugged Sansa’s gown down, and the girl let her, her small breasts popping free as the gown fell to her waist. Sallah pushed it off her hips, and Sansa stepped out of it, walked towards the tub. One girl held her hand, helped her into the tub. The water was deliciously warm, and Sanda leaned agsint the tub, her hair splaying on top of the water.

Sallah left her briefly as the maids helped to scrub her, to wash her hair. Sansa felt like she was coming back to life, being clean again. When Sallah returned, she ordered the girls to help Sansa out of the tub, then to leave. Sansa stood naked, still wet, and Sallah looked her over.

“You’re quite the young woman,” she said, offering her a smile. “Have you flowered, child?”

“Yes,” Sansa admitted, thinking back to Joffrey, to the Queen. Were she at King’s Landing she’d be married. He’d have taken her by now.

“Good. No child should wear as fine silk as I intend to dress you in.” She motioned for Sansa to come to her, and the girl obeyed, letting Sallah dress her as the trader spoke. “Sandor was quite worried about you, sweetling. When you lost consciousness, I think he feared you dead.”

“You know him?” Sansa asked, and Sallah laughed.

“Even in the free cities we hear of the knights of Westeros. However, I know him because of the time I have spent trading in your kingdom. Joffrey’s dog, yes. That is why i was so shocked to see him with you, and so far from your city.” She adjusted the cloth, then began brushing Sansa’s wet hair. “I’ve heard many terrible things about him, and his brother. The whole damned Clegane house, truly. I was worried he had stolen you- but now I know you went willingly.”

Sallah turned Sansa, examined her. She had dressed her in some of the finest cloth from Qarth, white and blue, transparent were it fell in few layers along her legs. Sallah reached down, pinched one of Sansa’s nipples through the gown. Sansa gasped, blushed, and Sallah laughed.

“Do not worry, sweetling. The color will look better under your dress this way.” She pinched the other, then adjusted the way the cloth fell from her shoulders, down to a deep V along her breasts. She left Sansa’s hair undone, to dry in beautiful auburn waves, and set her down to drink a glass of sweet honeyed wine.

“I like you, child,” Sallah said as she sat down herself. “I’ve heard of the terrible monster _His Grace_ is.” She nearly spat the words. “No girl deserves that. Sandor is proving himself quite the man to take you away from that. I’d like to help, myself. You will have safe voyage to Qarth, and enjoy any of the wares I have that you can use. I’ve moved you to a room closer, though I dare say it still pales in comparison to what you may have had in the city. A ship is still a ship, and can only have so much luxury when I must carry my goods and men too.” She emptied her cup and filled it again. “When we reach Qarth, should you choose to stay, I will make sure you have accommodations. If not, you may sail with me to Lys, and I will have you set up in my own home.”

“What of the Hound?” Sansa asked, and Sallah just laughed.

“Child, I do believe where you go, he will follow. Think on this, you are alone in these cities. You know nothing, no one. He is much the same. You are far from home, sweetling, but so is he. You will have to become home to each other.”

Sansa said nothing, just sipped her honeyed wine, feeling deliciously clean and happy. Sallah stood then, and Sansa followed.

“Now, I’ll show you to your new room. Get you more rest, you will need it. I’ve had some remedies placed in there for you, should the sickness come back.” Sansa smiled, and thanked her. They walked out of her chambers, and Sallah gestured towards a door. Sansa walked to it, opened it, stepped inside, examined her new chambers with pleased eyes. Much larger, she had room to walk about now. There was a table where the remedies sat in small bottles, two chests that had not been with her before-

And a larger bed, one that the Hound sat on, drinking, eyeing her. His eyes were dark, hungry, and Sansa reached up towards her throat, feeling her breath choke. Why was he looking at her like that?

“Are you well?” he asked, and she just nodded. He took another drink, a long one, and Sansa walked over to him, sitting on the bed. He offered her the wine, and she took a sip, before passing it back to him.

“Sallah is very kind,” she said, and the Hound nodded.

“She likes you. You must have sung her a good song, little bird.” Sansa shrugged a bare shoulder, and the Hound watched it move, wanted to kiss it, her neck, bury himself in her hair and lose the world. Clean or filthy Sansa Stark was the most captivating woman he had met, and now with the way the colors of her skin showed through the gown, it was becoming increasingly hard to contain himself.

It had always been hard, even at King’s Landing. But at least then he just wanted to fuck her, to take something that that bastard brat Joffrey called his own, to destroy something innocent. Now he wanted her, not just once, but again and again. He wanted to lock her away in a tower and be the only one to enjoy her, to take her as he pleased, to hear her scream his name and _beg_ for it. He wanted to make her enjoy it, to feel her tremble and quake.

He wanted her to love him, to see his scars and touch them. But being around her, so thirsty for her body, it was easy to want to take her first.

He finished the wine, tossed the wineskin away, a little drunk. He turned to Sansa and touched her hair, ran the strands through his fingers. She didn’t stop him, just watched him. Outside, the sky rumbled, a storm moving in, fast.

“Will we be alright?” Sansa asked, looking up at the rumble, showing him her pale throat. He didn’t speak, he stared. Another low rumble, and then a the ship moved, more than usual, as it pushed through a wave. Sansa wobbled a little, and Clegane reached for her, grasping her, pulling her to him. They tumbled down to the bed, the Hound on his back, Sansa falling on his chest. She squeaked in shock, and he pressed his face into her hair and her throat, smelling her sweet skin, feeling its softness. She squirmed a little, but he held her firm.

“What are you doing?” she asked, eyes wide. She felt his rough scars on her skin, his lips on her throat. She was scared, she had never been touched like this, but somewhere inside her, she knew it felt _good_. Still, she tried to pull away, confused, when his lips captured hers. She gasped, her hands on his chest. They stopped pushing away, clutched at the clothing instead as his lips moved in a lullaby like rhythm.

He tasted like wine and salt and something dark and devious. His arms encircled her as he drank in her honey mouth, stroking her back. Her dress was so thin she could feel the heat from his hands. One of his legs pushed between hers, and he rolled them over, pinning her to the bed. His lips found her neck, her shoulder, one of his hands tugging on her dress. He freed one of her breasts and kissed it, closed his mouth over her rosy nipple and made her cry out.

She had stopped fighting. She should be scared, she should want to push him off. She was a _lady_ , and a lady was not touched in this way except by her husband. But when Clegane touched her, he lit fire under her skin, laced with a touch of fear because he was so much bigger than her. A fear she liked, warm and sharp in the pit of her belly.

She moaned as he bit gently, then moved back up to her mouth. Her mouth opened, he slipped his tongue inside, tasted honeyed wine and young, naive excitement. Clegane felt his cock straining against his clothing, and he slipped one of his between them, ready to touch Sansa, when his sense cleared for a moment, and he realized what he was doing.

_Seven hells!_ He pulled back, reaching up and grabbing her arms, pulling her away. Sansa gasped, and he got off the bed quickly, running a hand over his face, his scars, into his dark curls. She stared, looking so young, her breasts free, her dress pulling between her thighs, hiding the one place the Hound longed to bury himself.

“What’s wrong?” Sansa asked, breathless, and he turned sharply, storming out, afraid if he looked at her any longer he’d take her. The door slammed and she sat there, stunned into silence. She heard another crash of thunder, and pulled her dress up, curling up under the blanket, telling herself he’d be back soon.

Clegane stormed into the hall, breathing heavily, trying to contain himself. No one walked the ship now, not during the storm, and he had a moment to lean against the wall, try to compose himself. That had been too close, he would have fucked her raw had he not come to his senses.

He heard a door, and turned his head, saw Sallah leaning on her door frame, in a nightgown that left nothing to be imagined of her curvy body.

“Trouble sleeping, Sandor?” she asked. He gritted his teeth, said nothing, just tossed his head away, not nearly as mesmerized by her as he was by Sansa. Though his blood ran hot, and his cock was still excited by her body. Sallah sighed, snapped her fingers, and one of her girls appeared. “Little one, help our good friend here with his problem, then return to me when he’s finished with you.”

With that, she shut the door. Sandor turned, and the woman pulled her dress down, baring her breasts for his hungry eyes. She wasn’t what he wanted, but if he didn’t do something he risked returning to Sansa’s bed and forsaking his promise of protecting her.

When the Hound didn’t return, Sansa crept to the door, wondering where he had gone. She opened the door, peeked out, and almost lost her hold on the door.

The Hound had a girl pinned to the wall, one of Sallah’s girls, and he was taking her, roughly. She was groaning and squirming, but he wasn’t looking _at_ her, Sansa could see it in his eyes. She watched, squirming a little, red jealousy brimming in her, and something coiling inside her, her thighs growing wet. He hadn’t removed his clothing or hers, so Sansa couldn’t truly see anything, but she heard his gasps, watched him shudder and her writhe, and then the Hound was releasing her, and Sansa closed the door and hurried back to bed.

She lay down, pulled the blanket up tight, and closed her eyes. She was angry, she had _wanted_ him, she had! But at the same time, she didn’t feel spurned. Just confused. If he had been so aroused, so enticed, why hadn’t he taken her?

Sansa held herself, curled up, letting the realization of her desire sink in. She knew little of bed warming, other than as a woman, when she married it was her duty, that her husband would take joy in it and put a child inside her. She knew there must be some yearning, but the feelings inside her, hungry and hot and tight, far surpassed what she had expected.

And why had the Hound refused her? He had her, his mouth on hers, he could have taken her easily. She was powerless to fight him, she knew. Yet he had left, had taken a serving girl in the hallway instead.

Sansa wondered if there was something about her that wasn’t pleasing. She touched her breasts, cupped them through the fabric. Had he been displeased with them? They were not large as Sallah’s were, or the serving girl’s. She ran a hand down to her hip, along its curve, was it not enough? She wondered about the spot between her legs, when the door opened again.

Instantly she closed her eyes, feigned sleep. She heard the door latch, Sandor’s footsteps, the uncorking of a wineskin. He must have taken many long gulps before closing it and crawling into bed with her, careful not to touch her. Sansa frowned, wanted to burrow against him. She liked his warmth, she had since those night spent on the hard forest floor. It was comforting, intoxicating, yet denied to her now.

Sansa fell into a fitful sleep, unsatisfied.


	4. Chapter 4

Her mood was sour in the morning, and she faked sickness from the sea to be left alone. She spent the day drifting in and out of sleep from the remedies, Clegane coming and going, spending more time checking on Stranger, more time drinking with Sallah and her girls. The jealous Sansa felt when awake made her want to drink his strong wine as well.

The next day she let him rise and leave without her, only getting up to brush her hair and dress in lilac and purple cloth once he was gone. The fabric to the dress tangled up around her neck, leaving the pale skin between her breasts exposed. Had she been in Westeros, Sansa was sure she’d be shamed to be seen like this, as beautiful as the dress was. It was something meant for someone older, a woman with bedding experience, who know how to carry herself like a woman.

Sansa sighed, let herself out of the room. She walked to the deck, now bustling with crew and a few of the passengers, enjoying the calm waters.

Sansa sat, back to the railing, watched as a dog was sniffing around. One of the sea hands gave her a pat, and she walked to someone else, who did the same. When it caught wind of Sansa, it stopped, looked at her, then walked over, slowly, head low. It lay down in front of her, looking up with big round eyes, and she pet its shaggy black and white fur. The dog was much smaller than Lady, but brought back thoughts of her none the less. Sansa missed her wolf dearly.

“It’s good to see you up, child.” Sansa looked up, met Sallah’s lovely gaze. In cloth more transparent than Sansa’s, the blue of her dress gave a beautiful effect to her skin. Her nipple were clear rosy buds beneath her dress, the juncture of her thighs a shadowed mystery. “Sandor told me you were ill yesterday.”

Sansa only nodded. What else had he told her? Was it only one of her serving girls he had taken, or the lovely Sallah as well? She seemed to have warmed up to the Hound very quickly.

“Come drink some wine with me and break your fast.” She extended her hand, and Sansa had no choice but to accept it.

In Sallah’s chambers she broke her fast on cheese and bright berries, sweet and cool from the free cities. Sallah drank wine, stronger than the night she had groomed Sansa, but still sweet with honey and a touch of cinnamon. Sansa had a glass as well, sipping carefully.

“Are you excited to see the free cities?” she asked, and Sansa gave an unladylike like shrug of her shoulder. She was too distracted by Sallah’s serving girl, bringing them berries and wine and cheese and other little foods, her breasts barely covered in white cloth, her skin just visible beneath the thin fabric. Sansa wanted to stop her, to examine every inch, to see why Clegane had turned from her to this woman.

Sallah was laughing, and Sansa looked at her, having missed everything she said. The girl’s confused face only made her laugh more. “Do you fancy my serving girl, child?”

“No, I-“ Sansa’s words caught in her throat, and Sallah beckoned the girl over. She came obediently, not a single thread of restraint as Sallah pulled her gown down, exposing her breasts. Sansa stared, eyed them, full and ripe, and looked down at her own. She frowned, and Sallah waved the girl off.

“Sweetling, tell good Sallah what is on that mind of yours.” She sipped her wine.

“I’m rather ugly, aren’t I?” Sansa asked, looking back at her. “I look a girl still.”

“You are a girl,” Sallah said, setting her wine down. “A flowered woman yes, but still so young. And far from ugly. Do you think a set of big tits is all that makes a girl beautiful?” Her laughter was warm and rich. “Child, you are a beauty to behold. The gods melt when you walk by, the goddesses sick with jealousy. Do not fret because you don’t have the body of a bed slave.” Sallah stood and walked over to Sansa, taking her hands. “Tell good Sallah what has you thinking you are so horrid, sweetling?”

Sansa worried her lip, turning it a flush red, standing about against her pale skin. She didn’t want to admit to her desires, she didn’t fully understand them, and what would this woman think of her? Would she think her a child, or as sickly wanton as a bed slave?

Her silence seemed to speak though, and Sallah got down on her knees, sinking ever so slightly into her thick plush carpet. “Sweetling, there is someone you desire?”

“Yes,” Sansa admitted, blushing. Sallah smiled, reached out and brushed some hair from her face.

“You need not blush. In Lys, we value all there is to lovemaking. There is no shame in it, nor in your desires. You _are_ a young woman flowered, and this is part of your nature now. You will want.” She played absently with the fabric of Sansa’s dress, and the girl could seel her long nails brushing her skin through the fabric. “There is no shame in it. The shame is in your kingdom turning your desire into something vile and frowned upon.”

“A proper lady has desires only for her husband,” Sansa said, “and I have no husband.”

“And you need none. Good Sallah has taken no husband, but many lovers. I want for nothing, my body is always satisfied.” She stroked Sansa’s cheek. “Child, if you desire a man, then you must take him. Do not wait for him to find you, to come seeking his own fulfillment. You must _show_ him that you desire him.”

“But, I’m a _maiden_ ,” Sansa exclaimed, “I must be preserved until I’m married.”

“Then this man is lucky,” Sallah said, “to be given such a gift. As for marriage, do not think on it. You are going to many different places child, different from your home. Your lack of maidenhood will not deminish your chance of a husband, should you want one. You have youth and beauty, and a strong name from a strong kingdom. Men will want you for any of those reasons and more.”

Sansa said nothing, and Sallah stood up, petting her hair. “Sweetling, listen to good Sallah. Follow your heart, and your womanhood.” She reached down, pressing her hand between Sansa’s thighs, against her womanhood through her dress and silken smallclothes. “Taking is not just for the men.”

She walked back to her seat and drank her wine, and Sansa sat in silence, drinking her own, relishing the warm feeling it created in her tummy.


	5. Chapter 5

She spent her day on the deck, watching the sea and the sky, the men keeping up with the ship, and playing with the dog. She saw little of the Hound, who stayed below, with his cups, and the bawdy jokes and company of the sailors at rest. When it came time for the evening meal, he ate with them, and Sansa ate with Sallah and her serving girls, in the same room, but separate. She kept looking at him, watching him drink, the way his throat moved, those dark eyes. He should _scare_ her, but truly he only enticed her. Before her flowering he had seemed fearsome, but he had his kind moments, though masked. But now, after her blood, he seemed something knew, some mystery she wanted to explore.

“Which one has your eye, sweetling?” Sallah asked, leaning over. “Any of those men, I can command. The sailors take orders from their captain, but he takes his orders from me.”

Sansa only shook her head, sipping her wine. She was starting to notice the way the Hound’s clothing fit him, missing the bulk of leather and mail, now that he was relaxed enough on the ship. His sword stayed at his side though. The cloth pulled tight over his broad chest, hard beneath, and Sansa wanted to touch it, to sink against it, the way she had tried in the forests, through cloth and boiled leather and mail.

She sighed and let one of the serving girls fill her wine cup.

When she returned to her room, after staying to listen to one of Sallah’s girls sing in another tongue, she found Sandor there,, readying himself for sleep. He had pulled his shirt off, despite the chill of the sea air, and just stared at her when she entered. A lantern was still lit.

“Did you enjoy your time with the Lysene woman?” he asked, walking over to the lamp and blowing out the light. The room wast cast into darkness.

_I would have enjoyed my time more with you_.

She said nothing, just walked over to the bed, pulling the blanket back. She thought to change into a nightgown, but decided to keep her dress, and slipped into bed. The Hound rest beside her, pulled away from her. She frowned, she wanted him closer. She knew she could never bring herself to be as bold as Sallah suggested, but if she could tempt him, perhaps Clegane would give her _something_.

“I’m cold,” Sansa lied, “the wind is icy tonight.”

“Drink some wine, it’ll warm you.” His words were gruff, but she felt his eyes on her back, her shoulders, drinking in her skin in the dark.

“My tummy may be upset,” she said, “with the sea. I dare not drink another sip.”  
There was silence, followed by the Hound’s annoyed grunt, before his arm reached around her, pulling her back to him. She pressed herself along his chest and stomach, felt one of his legs slip between hers. She suppressed a shiver, enjoying the feel of his muscles, hidden by such little clothing. What she had thought felt wonderful in the forest held not a candle to this.

“Better?” he asked, and Sansa smiled.

“Yes, although I fear I feel a bit of the sea illness.” She took his hand, placed it flat against her belly, and sighed. His fingers moved gently, tracing it’s flatness, up her navel, stopping just below her ribs. She heard him exhale, feeling the heat from beneath her gown. He tried to move away, but she pressed against him, leaning her head away to expose the smooth curve of her neck.

Clegane was confused, and had no blood left in his head to think. The Little Bird was playing coy, but to what end he wasn’t sure. His cock urged him to find out, but his head cursed both her and his needs. She was the little bird, young Sansa, the one person he had found anything to enjoy at King’s Landing. The one he had silently guarded, had taken the risk of leaving for. She needed protection, not his desires, not his cock between her sweet thighs.

Still, there was little resistance in him. He nuzzled into her neck, smelled her sweet hair. His scars were rough, and Sansa found she loved it more. She reached back, sank her hand into his hair, held his face closed. He groaned, and she felt him through their clothing, pressing against her, hard. She blushed, was thankful it was dark. In the light she might lose her nerve.

“Little bird,” he murmured, kissing her neck, nipping at it, making his way to her throat. She did shiver, and he reached up, gripping her breasts, kneading it in his hand, feeling it’s silken firmness, cursing her dress. She moaned, her rosy lips parting, her thighs growing wet.

She rolled over, facing him, and cupped his face in her hands. Her finger tips caressed his burns, and she closed the gap, kissing him. She met no resistance, he welcomed her lips, flicked his tongue against them. Her mouth opened, and she felt hsi tongue on hers, tasting like wine and something all his own.

Her hands went to his bare chest, feeling the dark hair, his skin, the texture of the scars that marred his skin so beautifully. He’d seen so many battles, killed so many men, every scar a triumph and a stark reminder. He let her trace them as he kissed her, his hands wrapped around her, holding her close. She felt his sex more prominently now, pushing against one of her thighs, and she wanted to reach down, release it-

But from there, she didn’t know. Was she just to let him take her? Was there more she should do, could do?

Sansa felt his hand reach down, press between her legs. She gasped, bucked against him, and that was all the encouragement he needed. The Hound slipped beneath her dress and her smallclothes, running his fingers along her slick, soft lips.

“Little bird,” he gasped, a wicked sound to his voice. He nibbled her ear, touching her slowly, “did you get this wet for me?”

There was a sharpness to his voice, almost mocking, and perhaps he was. Perhaps he was bitter from seeing her swoon over her handsome young knights, and never for him, not until know. Clegane did not pretend to understand her mind and its changes, but if she was going to be a wanton girl in heat, he was going to damn well enjoy himself.

He rubbed her clit, making her squirm and gasp, her breathing harsh and ragged. She _liked_ it, liked him touching her, and it made him impossibly harder. He wanted to drive himself inside her, but would not allow it. He could tease her, he could torment her, he would give himself that pleasure, but her maidenhood he would not take. He was not so cruel.

Sansa was clutching him, nuzzling his neck, his hair, whimpering and sighing and writhing, kissing his scarred cheek. The soft, warm sensations went straight to his chest, warming him, and he stopped smirking. Not even a whore paid with the best gold would touch his scars, not as she was doing. It seemed so natural to her, and suddenly the Hound didn’t want to mock her. He slowed his hand, moving in small, smooth strokes, leaving her trembling more. She grew wetter, and he could feel her tensing, her body wanting a release he was sure she had never experienced.

The thought made him hungry, made him want to devour her. He wanted to teach her, to break her innocence, make her remember his touch when she was with other men in the future, when she found a rich and civil husband. He wanted her to remember his scars and grow wet and wanton, to live immortally in her desires.

She cried out suddenly, loud and free, her head tipping back, her arms clutching onto him. Her whole body quaked, her muscles tensing, relaxing, tensing again, and the Hound smirked. He stroked her through the peak, down into the warm fuzzy feeling of the afterglow, that build in her tummy and seeped out to her fingers and toes. She slumped against him, feeling his warmth, and nuzzled under his chin.

She wanted to speak, but she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t even know what had just happened. He hadn’t taken her, his manhood was still confined be cloth. But _something_ had happened.

The Hound shifted, and she felt his cock straining against her. She gasped, felt his hand finally leave her womanhood, the rustling of cloth. Then he was nuzzling her, her neck, her hair, kissing and biting and licking her sweet skin, groaning as he stroked himself. She gasped, wrapped her arms around him, kissed him hard, her soft lips almost bruising against his, the corner rough with scars.

When he came, his hips bucked, and he groaned to his little bird, biting her lower lip, his seed coating his hand, the inside of his breeches. She clutched him, felt his heart hammering under his skin, in his veins, felt the way he relaxed as the pleasure eased it’s way through his body.

She kissed him, more gently now, briefly, before he gently pushed her back. He stood, and in the dark she watched him strip, just seeing the bare outlines of his body. He chucked his breeches away, wiping his hand on them, and crawled back to her, naked.

He held her in his arms, didn’t speak, and let her close her eyes. Sansa began to drift to sleep, unaware of how much the pleasure had taken from her. Clegane lay awake, with the little Stark in his arms, smuggly happy that he had made her peak so quickly, had taken away something from her ideals of being a proper lady.

But more, loving the way she felt in his arms, with so much less between them. His bare skin against the cloth of her dress, her soft skin, her hair, her warmth. He cradled her, only daring because she was lost in her dreams, unable to see how he looked at her in the dark, like a child to protect, like a woman to love, like a little bird who he wanted to see fly, but keep locked in a cage so he could hear her songs for the rest of his days.

Morning found Sansa intertwined with Clegane, their legs laced together, her arms around his neck. He lay on his back, and she rested on his chest, moving with his soft, shallow breaths. She awoke first, hazy from sleep, and kissed the skin in front of her, his scars, the hair on his chest tickling her. He stirred, ran a hand along her spine, but didn’t open his eyes. She blinked away her sleep, realizing slowly that she lay entangled with the Hound, his body naked except for the blanket covering them.

Curious, Sansa sat up, eyeing the body below her. The room was still dark, but light seeped in from eh hall, from above, and she could see his body. His hard chest, scars cutting clean into his flesh, the nearly black hair of his chest. She ran her fingers over it, down his stomach, felt the ridges of the muscles beneath his skin.

Her finger tips reached the blanket, and the trail of dark hair that led below. Biting her lip, she let her fingers slide beneath the blanket, along his skin, felt his manhood brush her hand. He was hard, and Sansa felt giddy, like a child. She pulled the blanket down, slowly, not wanting to wake him, then let her eyes drink him in.

She had never seen a naked man before, and what a _man_ Sandor Clegane was. She thought of her womanhood, seeming so small between her thighs, and wondered how he would ever fit inside her, should she tempt him to such an act. The thumping in her chest and tingling in her belly, in her sex, told Sansa she would try.

She traced her fingers along his length, hearing him groan. She was so distracted she didn’t noticed his eyes open, stare at her in amusement as she contemplated touching him more.

“Careful girl, there’s only so much a man can take.”

Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned to him, pushing the blanket back up, her cheeks red as a pomegranate. Sandor chucked at her, too amused by her delicious embarrassment to be mad. He sat up, reclining against the pillows, and reached out, moving a few strands of her auburn hair from her face.

“Get some light in here,” he said, wanting to watch her move. She scrambled up, off towards their chests, and lit the lantern. Quickly light flooded the small cabin, and he could see the details of her breasts below her dress, young and firm. He wanted to kiss them again. She walked back slowly, crawling into the bed, and once she had settled next to him, he pulled the blanket down, feeling the cool air wrap around his cock. Sansa gasped, seeing him in the pure light, and he rasped a laugh.

“Never seen a man, little bird?” She shook her head, even though he knew the answer, making it all the sweeter. Take everything from her, so no man could ever break her memories of him. Embed himself within her skin and blood and bones, her very being, so she could never escape. The thoughts made him harder, as did her wondering, soft fingertips at the base.

He took her hand, guided her, wrapped it around his aching length. She bit her lip, moved her hand slowly as he guided, up along to the head, then back down. He released a shaky breath, relaxed into the pillows.

“If you’re going to touch me, do it proper.”

Sansa obeyed, stroking him softly. The feeling of her sweet skin was intoxicating, and the Hound let her go at her own pace, as frustrating as it was to feel her butterfly caresses. She grew bolder though, tightening her grip, stroking him in an assured fashion. He tipped his head back, groaning, wanting to thrust towards her hand, to spill his seed and taste the sweet relief it sent through his body.

He couldn’t though. He didn’t want to dirty her pretty little hands.

“Stop, little bird.” He was barely a whisper, hoarse and half hearted, and Sansa looked at him.

“Why?” she asked, stroking the head of his cock for a few moments, before the whole length again. He groaned through gritted teeth.

“Wouldn’t want your pretty hands to get dirty.”

Something flashed in her eyes. Something primal, though she only vaguely understood it. She knew a man emptied himself into a woman when he bedded her, but she didn’t know what it was like. But she intended to find out. Sansa intended to discover everything this man had to offer.

She released him, heard him let out a raspy growl of displeasure, and straddled his thighs. In one quick motion she pulled her dress down to her hips, exposing her small, perky breasts, and that slender belly Sandor loved to stroke, to tease. She took him in her hands again, eyes locking with his, as he had looked up, and resumed her stroking, with more of a fervor this time, convinced that she would please him. He watched her move, her skin in the candle light, the slight bounce to her breasts, could barely see as white hot need clouded his vision.

“Sansa,” he forced out, still holding back, and the girl felt her heart flutter. He had said her name. Her actual name. It wasn’t until then that she realized she was always _girl_ or _child_ , or affectionately, _little bird_. Never Sansa, never herself, until now.

She leaned over, cradling his head with her free hand, pulling him up and kissing him roughly. His cock brushed her belly, he felt her skin everywhere, and with a strangled moan into his little bird’s mouth, he came with a rush, every thing turning white hot and than hazy.

Sansa kissed him through out, conscious that his arms had gone around her, though she wasn’t sure when. Her fingers felt sticky, she felt it on her belly too, but she was elated. She hoped she had made Clegane feel what she had felt the night before, that sweet, throbbing pleasure through out her body.

The Hound cupped her face, kisisng his deeper, before sitting up, Sansa still in his lap. She leaned back, gave him a dazzling smile, and he laughed. He truly, deeply laughed.

“What?” she asked, looking so young suddenly, and he gave her a smile, his scars twisting, but not unkindly to her eyes.

“Where did you learn to touch a man like that?”

“You showed me,” Sansa blanched, suddenly afraid she had done something wrong. He just shook his head.

“No, I showed you to stroke me. I never told you to climb on top of me, you vixen.”

Sansa blushed deeply, and he kissed the tip of her nose, too calm and warm from his orgasm to even care, to try and hide the affection he did hold for the girl. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with a woman, and spent more than a few passing seconds with her after. Even if he hadn’t fucked his little bird, this still was more than he had experience with any woman in his life.

“We should get you cleaned up,” he said, looking at his seed spilled on her hand, and her belly. Passion flared in his gut again, and he wanted to spill it _inside_ her, feel her warmth, wanted to claim her as his own. Even make her swell, let his seed take, so everyone could see just what was his.

Those were very dangerous thoughts, though, and Sandor pushed them far away, shifting from beneath his little bird to help her clean up.


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa spent the day on the deck, drinking in the sunlight, and playing with that dog again. She felt wonderful, like some of the torment in her belly was lifted. She didn’t look at Sallah’s maid jealously when they attended their lady atop, instead greeted them all with warm smiles. She stared out at the sea, wished to swim in it, feel it cold and fresh on her body. She wanted to feel everything. She wasn’t afraid.

“She seems in high spirits,” Sallah said, handing Sanor a cup of wine, which he took gladly. “Much improvement over her previous state. The child must miss home.”

“She has little to miss,” the Hound said, taking a drink and watching as Sansa chased the dog around. He remembered her wolf, the one Eddard Stark had killed in place of the little Stark girl’s wild thing that had bit Joffrey. He gritted his teeth. She had been very upset over that, he recalled.

“She has family,” Sallah said, “what do you suppose to do about that?”

Clegane truly didn’t know. Sallah made it sound like he was kidnapping Sansa, though those were not his intentions. He simply wanted to get away from Westeros, and the safest place for the both of them was far away, forgotten and left alone. But she did have her brother and mother, fighting the Lannisters, and her two brothers in Winterfell. And her wild sister, lost to the world somewhere in the kingdom. Eventually, she’d want to return to them.

“Nothing,” he said, emptying his wine glass. Sallah signaled and the serving girl he’d fucked poured him another, giving him a gaze of fear and excitement. He didn’t even see it. “There’s nothing to be done. Her safety... that’s my concern. If the war ends and her family is still standing, then I’ll bring her home.”

Sallah chuckled. “Easily sad, much harder acted upon, Sandor. Would you let this pretty little thing just slip through your grasp?” The Hound watched as Sansa fell to her knees, hugging the dog, then tossing something away, and it chased after it. The sun beat down on her, turning her auburn hair to fire, her skin perfect and smooth and bright, the light showing him colors beneath her dress that made his loins stir.

He didn’t answer, just drank more wine.

The days at sea were spent as a mix of time on the deck, taking in the sun, and time spent below, Sansa enjoying Sallah’s company, Sandor often drinking and enjoying the lewdness of the sailors. At night he let himself hold her, press against her body and smell her sweet scent. She touched him sometimes, fleeting caresses along his body, and the Hound had to resist trying to bury himself inside her. She was torture, sweet, beautiful torture, and he got the feeling she knew what she was doing. Though he never pressed her, never touched her much without her asking, which she didn’t do, much to his sorrow.

He kissed her though, often. He senesed it was a game she was playing at, one that he didn’t mind going along with. He’d kiss her, leave her breathless and squirming, but wouldn’t touch her unless she asked. It left him to chuckling when he’d see her frustrated face, cheeks red, when he’d lay down and feign sleep.

Sansa sat now in a bath, locked in Sallah’s chambers. She was scrubbing herself, her skin turning a pretty pink. She was excited, told soon they would be reaching land. Maybe ten days, and she would finally be free of the sea. Though she was growing used to it, she still needed Sallah’s remedies at times for her tummy.

Sighing, Sansa leaned back against the tub, bored. She was clean, but didn’t want to get out just yet. The air felt good on her wet, naked skin, left her tingling. Her skin was always tingling though, left wanton and needy from Sandor and his kisses. She wanted him still, in so many ways, ways she didn’t even understand, but she denied herself. She wanted him to want her too, to need to take her and give in to those desires. She wanted to know if he had something burning in him just as hot as she did, or if his reactions stemmed simply from her own wants.

Sallah had advised her that she should take what she wanted, but if she wanted someone to last, she must play it slow. Those words had come shortly after she had tumbled in the bed with the Hound, over food while they broke their fast. Sallah hadn’t asked who, just smiled, said she saw a twinkle to the girl’s eyes.

Sansa was taking her advice, but it was hard. And she could tell that Sandor was not fully unaware, he was playing with her as well. She traced through the water with her finger, thinking of how it felt to run over his skin instead. She had spent enough time waiting, it was time to give him another taste.

She stood, stepped from the bath. One of Sallah’s girls was there, the one who had not been with the Hound, held out a gown for her, and helped her dry and dress. Sansa had continued to wear the thin cloth Sallah provided, this dress a rich yellow, like pretty little bird.

The girl brushed Sansa’s hair, and she pinched her own nipple, hissing in slight pleasure, watching their color change below her dress. She wanted them noticeable. One her hair was dried and rich in bright waves, she and the girl walked off, to Sallah and the rest of the crew and passengers enjoying some food and drink for the night.

The serving girl walked right to Sallah, who smiled at Sansa and beckoned her over. Sansa smiled, but shook her head. She had bolder plans, plans she knew would expose to Sallah who she had been so desiring, but she didn’t care. She walked carefully over to Clegane, who sat at a table with some men, mostly crew members, drinking and laughing. He must have sensed her coming, though her slippered feet made no sounds, because he turned. And he stared.

The gown was thinner than her others had been, showing the pink of her skin, her rosy nipples, and the shadow between her thighs that made his mouth water. She smiled at everyone, then sliped between him and the table, right onto his leg, leaning against his opposite arm, taking his wine and drinking a mouthful from the cup, before setting it back down. He tried to not stare, but it was impossible, and he noticed the other men eyeing her eagerly.

In the distance, Sallah was laughing, beaming, grinning like a fool and enjoying the show.

Through the night, Sansa drove the Hound wild. She’d squirm around and laugh at the men, at their crude, bawdy jokes, though Sandor could see the blush on her cheeks form her embarrassment. But she’d slip off his leg sometime, to his actual lap, press her bottom against his sex and act as if it wasn’t happening. She’d brush her hand down absently and touch him, tilt her neck enough to let him see over her shoulder, see her breasts, the way they rose and fell as she breathed.

By the time a few men went to relieve the other crew, he was ready to burst. She was laughing, drinking wine from his cup still, and he cursed that he could taste her lips with every sip. When the men were leaving, he wrapped an arm around her waist and stood up, lifting her over his shoulder in one motion. She laughed, her hair flying, and clutched at his back. In the commotion, it went somewhat unnoticed, and he carried her down the halls, back to their cabin.

She was squirming against him as he carried her, laughing still, rich and sweet. He wondered if she was drunk. She _had_ been drinking his wine, and plenty of it.

In their room, he had left a lantern on, and it was burning low, giving off light like growing dusk. He latched the door, still holding onto Sansa, then walked over to the bed and tossed her down. She landed on her back, laughed more, and smiled up at him. He wanted to be annoyed, that she would act such a foolish girl, that she had been cruel enough to torture his desires when they already boiled for her in his blood, but he could not. He just wanted her.

He crawled over her and kissed her, and she tangled up with him, hands in his hair, legs locking with his. She was ferocious, his little bird, her kisses matching his, her tongue pressing to his where it would have let him dominate. He groaned, reached down, tugged her dress so one of her breasts was freed and cupped it, running his thumb along her nipple. She shivered, and he released her mouth, turning his attention to that sensitive pink bud, stroking it with his tongue, biting it gently. Sansa tossed her head, felt his tongue and teeth, his beard and scars, and her legs quaked as she edged them open more, pressing her pelvis up against him. His other hand reached between them, under her gown, up along her thigh, towards her womanhood-

_Seven bloody hells_ he thought, finding her sex naked and slick. She hadn’t worn any smallclothes at all. He pressed into her folds, felt her squirm and whimper, and lost all control. He tore at her dress, getting it off her quickly, and took in her body for the first time. Completely naked, her skin had just the slightest tint of pink excitement, her curves subtle and glorious. He continued to touch her, watching his fingers as they brought her more joy, sneaking peeks at her face as she tossed her head and closed her eyes, smiling and sighing with delight.

Then he lay down and parted her thighs, burying his face between them. She cried out, sitting up as his tongue traced her lips, up to that little bud of pleasure, circled it. She shuddered, supported by her elbows, couldn’t take her eyes away from him, even as they threatened to roll back in her head. Her hips gyrated ever so slightly, showing him the movement she wanted, and he groaned, his cock digging into the bed beneath him. The groan made her tremble, and he stopped long enough to take a deep breath, staring up at her, his lips and some of his stubble wet.

Sansa lost it, she reached down, tangled her hand in his hair, pushed him towards her again. He grasped her thighs, fingers digging in, kissed her so passionately below that she cried out, her pleasure taking her by surprise. The knot in her tummy, tightened and burst before she could breath, and she well to her back, clutching at the bed now, calling out to him, over and over again, to _her_ Hound.

He nearly lost himself when he felt her hips bucking, tasted how sweet she was in her endless pleasure. He kissed her, licked her until she was nothing but a trembling ball of nerves, then pulled himself up her and kissed her lips. Sansa tasted herself, was so dizzy she thought she was drinking honey wine from his mouth. She wrapped her arms around him, her legs, and they lay there, mouths slowly dancing.

Sansa slowly came to her senses as the kisses progressed, became aware of the Hound’s need pressing to her naked thigh through his breeches. She reached down, managing to stroke him through the cloth, felt him exhale against her lips.

“Bloody hells Sansa,” he muttered, and she realized he was trembling. “What did you do with the proper girl from King’s Landing?”

Sansa was quiet, unlacing his breeches, freeing him. She stroked him, sure of her movements this time, making his hips buck. Her free hand pushed against him, and he let himself fall off her, watched as she stretch out on her stomach, faceing his cock. She kissed the base gently, wondering if her mouth could bring him as much pleasure as his had brought her. From the rasped breath that wretched from his throat, she was sure it could.

She kissed along the underside of his cock, up to the head, let her little pink tongue flick against it, all the while stroking him. He was thrusting in time with her hand, making it easy for her when she opened her mouth and let him thrust inside. Inexperience and a young, small mouth left Sansa with plenty of his length to work with her hand, but he seemed beyond satisfied with what she was giving him.

Sandor had his head tipped back, gasping for breath as he felt hot white fire spreading through him. Sansa felt like a goddess, her mouth and hand like a silken embrace around his aching manhood. He tried to restrain himself, but his hips obeyed only his throbbing cock, pushing up towards Sansa, begging and pleading for sweet release.

Sansa pressed her tongue to the underside of his cock, taking him deeper in, her nails digging into his hips as she braced herself. Caught off guard, Sandor felt his body explode, his gruff cry coming strangled from his throat. Sansa felt hot liquid fill her mouth, and she swallowed without thought, tasting bitterness, salt, an oddly satisfying taste that made her lick her lips as she released him. He was trying to catch his breath, and Sansa ran a finger along his hard stomach, her voice soft, a whisper gone unheard.

“I killed her.” The glint in her Tully blue eyes told the truth, sweet and innocent Sansa Stark was gone, buried within this girl’s breast. This new Sansa, the blossomed woman discovering her desires, she was all that remained, all that burned in embers of the girl’s wolf skin.


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa had lain in Sandor’s arms after, kissing his skin gently, tracing random paths along his body with her finger tips. She had let him cradle her, let him kiss her forehead, her hair, the tip of her nose. That had made her giggle. He was like a different man, like layers of steel had been removed, and he lay exposed with her. She had laced her fingers in with his and kissed his knuckles, smiled sweetly at him as he called her Little Bird and kissed her gently.

 

Sleep overtook him before Sansa, and she left him to sleep. She stood from the bed, blew the lantern out, and changed into a night gown. The night was cool, almost cold, and as she crawled into bed, she felt pangs in her tummy. She looked at Clegane as he slept, traced a few of his scars, dusting his hair from his face. In sleep, it felt like he had armed himself again, even if slightly. Sansa wondered if she could slip inside his skin again, get past everything and to his core. Get past the rage and the fire and the _fear_ , and find the man naked below.

 

She lay down, closed her eyes, and slept.

 

In the dark she heard it howl. Long a smooth, it ran into her blood. Her bed was gone, and she was sleeping on cold, heard Earth, in wool and furs. She sat up, opened her eyes, looked around in the dark. She was alone, despite the noises.

 

Scared, she crawled to her hands and knees, afraid to move. The girl on the ship felt gone, dead, the old Sansa in her place, scared and small. The sound came again, ever closer, and she was trembling. It was a wolf, she could tell, calling out to her. If Lady had been there, she wouldn’t have been scared. But without her, Sansa felt like no Direwolf, just a scared kitten.

 

She stood up and ran, trying to escape the noise. She dodged trees, her gown catching, ripping on stray branches. She gripped one, lifted herself up and over a large root, landed hard on her feet and kept running. She felt eyes, but couldn’t see them, haunting in the blackness. The trees felt endless, thicker and thicker, until she burst forth onto the road, under the pale moon.

 

Before her, standing tall and cold and dusted in fresh, crisp snow, was Winterfell. It was black as night, not a single fire lit, and silent. Sansa called out, but there was no answer.

 

“Father!” She called out, wanting good Lord Eddard Stark to walk out and carry her up to her room, to tuck her into bed and give her a warm smile. Or her mother, Lady Catelyn, to brush her hair and tell her she was alright. Instead Sansa was cold, with no one to come for her.

 

She heard the howl then, again, close enough for the animal to be breathing down her neck. That same moment a pang of pain shot through her stomach. She doubled over, clutching her belly, crying out. She staggered towards her home, when another wave hit her, harder, and she collapsed into the snow. It filled her mouth and nose, sent ice down to her lungs. She gasped and rolled onto her back, blinded by the moon, and cried out as her stomach twisted, her body nearly seizing.

 

She heard the howl again, and with a horror realized it came from _inside_ her. She clutched at her belly, felt her skin and muscle tearing, was sobbing and crying as cursing as the beast burst forth. The direwolf howled, crawled form the ruins of Sansa’s gut, slick and black in the night with blood. It looked at her, snarled, eyes gleaming a rapid yellow, and Sansa knew she would be at Winterfell soon, truly, with her father, sitting in the warm halls, listening to his laugh once again.

 

Sansa awoke with a start, crying out as she was sure her throat was being ripped out, and her stomach was in tight, painful knots. Her cry awoke the Hound with a start, and he was reaching for his sword when she reached out, blindly grabbing his arm.

 

“A...nightmare,” she gasped, panting, feeling slick with fear. Her hair was wild, and she was glad for the dark. Her heart pounded in her chest as she clutched her tummy, groaning. She looked around the room, sure that even though she was awake she would find the direwolf, ready to rip her throat out. She could _smell_ the blood...

 

She stiffened, and realized the slickness between her thighs wasn’t her fear, and that faintly, she truly could smell blood. Her face turned crimson, but the pangs in her belly made her double over. Sandor was reaching for her, pushing the hair from her face, trying to hold her, but she was pushing away.

 

“No,” she said, wanting to disappear, but the pain was too strong. “My _blood_.”

 

Clegane tensed, sure for a moment she was hurt, until he realized her pain. He smiled, though he knew inside he should not have, and forced her against his chest, stroking her back. He hushed her, felt her burning cheek on his chest.

 

“Let’s clean you up, little bird.”

 

He left her to sit on the bed long enough to slip into he breeches, then walked to her and scooped her into his arms. She protested, and he simply hushed her, carrying her out of their cabin. It was still night it seemed, as the ship slept. Sandor banged on Sallah’s door, and though it took a few moments, one of her girls opened the door. She looked at the two, then stepped aside and let them, in disappearing to get her Lady.

 

Sallah emerged moments later, eyes bright despite sleep.

 

“What’s the matter?” she asked, walking to them, concern on her face at the way the Hound was cradling Sansa.

 

“She’s had her blood,” he said, “can you clean her up? The little bird’s a bit frightened.”

 

Sallah nodded, gesturing them closer. She commanded her girls in another tongue, and they were off. Sansa could hear water sloshing.

 

“A bath will soothe her,” she said, stroking Sansa’s cheek. Sansa said nothing, burrowed her face into the Hound as a wave of pain hit her, and he held her tighter.

 

In the bath, Sansa felt her muscles relaxing. Her hair had been bound up, but the rest of her body was wet and warm. She was alone in the room, Sallah’s girls even giving her privacy.

 

Her face was still pink and hot, embarrassment thick. Sallah had laughed when she saw the blush as they got her naked and into the tub, saying there was no cause for such things. She was a woman, her body was simply reminding her she could bare children now.

 

“Have you seen a moon since your last blood?” Sallah had asked, pushing past the Hound and partially blocking him, leaving him out of a world he would not fully understand.

 

“No,” Sansa said, thinking back to the city. It had ended when The Hound had swept her from its walls. Sallah had shrugged a shoulder.

 

“You’re young,” she soothed, “it will come and go as it pleases.”

 

Sansa splashed some of the water, tinged just slightly pink, and leaned back. In her mind she saw the Direwolf still, heard it’s howl, felt its haunting yellow eyes. She had never seen such eyes on an animal, fierce and rapid and completely untamed. It made her shiver. And Winterfell, sweet Winterfell in its snow and cold. She missed it, dearly, and her mother and father, and Robb and Arya, Bran and Rickon. Even Jon, that bastard who had committed himself to the cold wall. She missed them all.

 

She stared up at the ceiling, wondering if she would ever see any of them again. If she would ever want to slap Arya, or cradle little Rickon, or cheer for Robb. Would she get to see Bran grow with his ruined legs? Would her mother ever sing to her again?

 

She knew her father was lost. She had seen his head, the head good King Joffrey had set on a spike and forced her to stare at. She frowned, her brow furrowed, and she wished for an army of Direwolves suddenly, fierce and bloodthirsty like the one in her dream, to come and feast on his filthy flesh, tear out his entrails and parade them around for the Queen Regent and her cursed Lions to see.

 

Sansa closed her eyes and pictured it, smiling faintly.

 

Sallah had given Sandor wine, strong wine, and sat with him. Her girls were lounging about, and the one he ahd taken against the wall kept giving him looks of desire. He ignored her, stared into the red wine, pictured the blood on Sansa’s thighs, the way the water turned pink when she was plunged in. He shifted, feeling an ache rising in him. She was a woman, despite her youth, and her blood only reminded him, only made him want her, despite it. He’d seen enough blood from men that the blood between a woman’s thighs gave him no fear.

 

“Poor child is quite frightened,” Sallah said, sipping at hers, “What are they teaching these highborn girls? Do they think their blood so horrid?”

 

“She had a nightmare,” Sandor said, shrugging a shoulder. “It must be that. Though, she was frightened when it first came, I remember. Meant she was fit for Joffrey.”

 

“That would give any woman a fright.” Sallah drank down her cup at the thought, and a girl filled it. “To think, she could have his child in her now had she stayed in the city.”

 

Sandor drank at that, wanting to erase the words. The thought of that bastard with his lion cock in his little bird made his blood boil, made the rage in him quake. As if that were not enough, imagining her belly big with his child made Sandor want to draw his sword and swim back to Westeros, and slay the boy where he slept. Many times he wished he had.

 

“Go fetch her,” Sallah said to one of the girls, and the one admiring Sandor got up and grudgingly left the room. She slipped into the room where Sansa was, and helped from the tub, to dry and dress, and wrap a cloth around her for her blood. Sansa felt tired, and when she was guided out, she went right to Clegane, curling up on his lap and not on the empty cushions beside him. He wrapped an arm around her, and Sallah met his gaze over the girl, giving him a smirk.

 

She waved her hand, and the other girl brought over a smile bottle. Sallah opened it and poured some into a cup the girl held out, who then poured in a bit of wine and swished it around.

 

“Drink this, Sansa,” Sallah said, “it will dull your pain.” Sansa took the cup and drank it down, before handing it back and nuzzling into Sandor, her arms around his neck.

 

“Let me get her back to bed,” he said, and Sallah nodded her agreement, following them to the door of her chambers. As they were leaving, Clegane saw her smirk again, her knowing smirk, and walked away with those pretty lips in his mind, making him think of Sansa’s mouth.

 

Sansa bled for a few days, staying in bed most of it, wracked with pain. Sandor sat with her at times, others he let her be. She dreamed, of snow and of lemon cakes and of crisp blue skies- but not of Winterfell, or the bloodied wolf with the yellow eyes.

 

Soon after, she was told they would reach land. Sallah told her over honey wine one evening, that by mid day the next day they would have their feet on the ground. Sansa’s heart was light with joy, yet she trembled. What was this new world she was about to set foot in? She had grown comfortable on the ship, in the tiny realm created by her and Sandor, Sallah and her chambers. And now it was all changing again.

 

That evening, the Hound had packed their saddle bags tight, taken them down to be left by Stranger. Sansa felt bad for the beast of a horse, sure he was ready to see land. Sandor walked him around down below every day, tried to soothe him when no one was looking, though Sansa knew. The horse didn’t judge his scars or his sword, just fed on the raw rage within him.

 

She had trouble sleeping, and come dawn went straight to Sallah to bathe and have her dress her. Sallah gave her thicker dresses now, saying she did not have the power in Qarth that she did on her ship. That she didn’t want men’s eyes to overwhelm Sansa.

 

She pulled some of Sansa’s hair back in braids, twining them together to fall with the rest of her auburn locks. Then took her to the deck, and they watched as the land on the horizon grew larger and larger.

 

When the ship docked, Sansa just stared a the port. It was rich with life, bustling, men and women so different dressed in rich colors and jewels, trading and discussing, selling and admiring. She clutching the railing on the ship and tried to drink in all the colors, the rich smells, but her body had not near enough room.

 

“Come little bird,” Clegane was calling across the ship. She turned and ran to him, taking his arm in her two and holding on as she walked with him. He had his mail and boiled leather on, dark and fearsome looking with his sword strapped to his hip. In the heat, Sansa wasn’t sure how he wasn’t melting through her fingertips.

 

“How do we know where to go?” Sansa asked as they waited to set foot on the dock.

 

“Sallah has been kind enough to suggest a place for us to rest, while we get used to the city.” He leaned over, kissed her forehead gently, gave Sansa little butterflies in her tummy. “We’ll get Stranger walked on real ground again, then she will take us.”

 

“And then what?” Sansa asked. Sandor looked at her, and she thought she saw a faint smile on his lips.

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but we’ll go somewhere.”

 

She left the unknown hanging in the air, saw their time had come, and walked with Clegane down to the deck. She didn’t feel as if she was on true land until she touched the stone roads, and she could have bent and kissed them. She would miss the ship, but not the sea.

 

Sandor took up Stranger’s reigns, and climbed on, pulling Sansa up in front of him. One arm around her waist, he followed Sallah and her girls, her guards, who rode ahead, Sallah seated in a litter carried by men hired at the port. Sansa looked around her as they traveled, wanting to reach out and touch the silks and cloths that covered the woman around her, smell their hair. So many scents were assaulting her she had to steady herself in the saddle. It had been so long since she rode that she felt out of place as well, leaning back against Sandor for support.

 

The place Sallah led them to was an inn, large and built of white stone. It was fresh and crisp, and Sansa stared, as if it came from a dream. Qarth was _beautiful_.

 

The men helped Sallah from her litter, just as a woman appeared at the door. Her skin was a dark, creamy brown, her hair tight black ringlets that fell shiny and heavy around her face and shoulders. She was thin, and greeted Sallah with open arms, one of her breasts free of her white silken dress. When Sandor reached them with Stranger, the two women were smiling excitedly.

 

“Sandor,” Sallah said, “allow me to introduce my good friend, Lee’Alah. This inn is hers-“

 

“And yours, darling Sallah,” she said, her voice rich and charming on Sansa’s ears. “What is mine is always yours, sweet woman.” Sallah laughed, and Sandor dismounted, reaching up and helping Sansa down. “You bring me friends and no warning, what am I to do with you?”

 

Sallah laughed, and Sansa saw the way she brushed some of Lee’Alah’s hair from her face. Soft, tender.

 

“Give them a roof, if you would,” she said, “I am quite fond of them, and I would be in your debt if you made their stay in Qarth pleasant.”

 

“Any friend of Sallah’s is welcome,” Lee’Alah said, turning to the two.

 

“This is Sandor,” Sallah said, gesturing to him. He frowned at her for a true introduction, and Sansa saw his face twitch as she went further. “Of house Clegane, of Westeros. That boy king I told you of, the blonde child, he was in his service.”

 

“Oh!” Lee’Alah exclaimed. “A knight from the king’s own court! How very exciting.”

 

“I’m no knight,” Sandor said, “and the boy’s court is a place of murder. There is no amusement there.”

 

Lee’Alah waved him off turned to Sansa as Sallah spoke. “And this little sweetling is Sansa, of house Stark.” Sansa gave the dark woman a smile, and she clasped her hands together.

 

“What a lovely little thing! Oh Sallah, you’re leaving such a precious gift with _me_? If I did nto know better, I’d expect you to marry me next.” They laughed, and then Lee’Alah ushered them inside, commanding a boy that had appeared to stable Stranger and fetch their things. Sandor stopped long enough to pat the horse, and give the boy a stern warning about the horse, before following them in.

 

The inn was lovely, lit with candles, the air thick with the scents of cinnamon burning sweetly. There were thick cushions upon chairs and couchs, a room further in the back set for eating.

 

“Lee’Alah has one of the finest inns in all of Qarth,” Sallah explained as they were led up a flight of stairs. “She hosts some of the richest travelers to the area, or the men who will pay the highest gold to bed their whores in luxury.”

 

The dark woman opened a door, gesturing for them to entre. Inside, Sansa stared, pink lips parted, at the large bed, the cushioned couch, the trunks from Sallah that had somehow been brought up before them. It was beautiful.

 

“This is for _us_?” she asked, while Sandor stared in silent shock as well.

 

“Only the best for a sweetling of Sallah’s,” Lee’Alah said. “Settle in, I will be downstairs. Come nightfall, I often have men in for drinks, and women looking to make some gold off them. I have many things to do.”

 

She gave Sallah a long gaze, then nodded to her visitors and was gone. When the door closed, Sansa looked back at Sallah, while the Hound walked around, checking around the room, wanting to know its every corner.

 

“This is too much, m’Lady,” Sansa said, all proper and highborn suddenly. Though her teachings had been lying dormant, they had not died, as she thought.

 

“Hugh, sweetling,” Sallah said, placing a finger against her lips. “It is not for such a lady as yourself. I see greatness in you, Sansa Stark, in your blood. Someday, you will deserve far more than this.” She gestured with her arms. “Someday, you will deserve a kingdom.”

 

Sansa was confused. “A kingdom?”

 

“Worry not now, sweetling,” she said, placing an arm around her shoulders, “and trust good Sallah. In time, you will understand.”

 

Sansa said nothing, just looked over at Sandor. He stood dark against the lightness, the luxury of the room, stark and rough, and truly the most comforting thing she had yet seen in Qarth. He caught her gaze, stared back at her, and she just smiled. The Free Cities wouldn’t be so bad, even if they left Qarth and traveled on. Sansa knew if she had him, she would be alright.


	8. Chapter 8

Sallah left them that evening, to return to her ship. She would sleep there, and bid them farewell before she set back to the sea, to reach Lys. Lee’Alah had been kind to Sansa and Clegane, offering them everything. When Sansa was not nearby, Sandor tried to give her gold, but she refused, telling him he would need it soon, if he ventured beyond the inn. The Free Cities were not free of price.

Sansa sank into the large, feather bed before Sandor reached the room, laying on her belly in the center, smiling like a foolish girl. It felt good to stretch out and relax, to see moonlight out the window above the bed. She could faintly hear the streets outside, and the sounds below. Someone was singing, though she wasn’t sure what, or if it was even in the common tongue.

Sandor stepped into the room latched the door, breathing a sigh of relief at being locked away and secure for the moment. Sansa let him be as he striped of his armor and sword, and rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. She ran her fingers over the silken sheets, closed her eyes, listened to Clegane moving around the room.

Then she felt him, felt his weight on the bed and his head so close to her. Before she opened her eyes he kissed her, softly, on her lips and her eyelids. Her lashes fluttered open and she stared up at him, smiling, reaching up to trace his scars.

He lay down next to her, pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly. She thought to entice him, to tease him, but he seemed far too content nuzzling her hair, kissing her gently, that Sansa couldn’t bring herself to. She instead let him do as he pleased, tangling her legs with his, lacing her fingers with the hand that rested on her belly.

“It’s pretty here,” Sansa whispered, “I thought it would look lik King’s Landing, outside the red keep.”

Sandor smiled, though she couldn’t see it. “Do you like it?”

“I _love_ it,” she breathed, and he gripped her tighter, holding her through the night.

Lee’Alah broke their fast with them, telling them Sallah would surely be there soon to wish them well. When the Lysene did arrive, she went straight to her friend, embracing her and kissing both her cheeks, bring her a silken dress, the color lined with grey wolf fur, from Westeros. Lee’Alah cooed, laughed, and Sansa watched the two, so intrigued. Sandor simply drank, giving them little notice.

“I will visit you properly soon,” Sallah was saying to Lee’Alah. “I must return to Lys, I have many things for the traders there. Then I will come back, and stay in Qarth until my next voyage.”

“You say this every time,” Lee’Alah said, and Sansa caught the slight twinge of sadness in her voice. The dark woman kissed the Lysene’s cheeks, then her lips softly, and Sallah turned to gather The Hound and Sansa.

“Come, enjoy the city morning with me before I leave.” The two followed her out of the inn, Sallah’s guards moving as as they stepped into the busy streets. Sansa had Sandor to her left, and one of Sallah’s guards to her right, behind her. She tried to walk with her head held high, just as Sallah did, grace in her light steps. _She could have been highborn_ Sansa thought, _with the way she walks and holds herself. Septa would have approved, though not of her personality._

There were vendors all over the city, with small tables showing off their wares. Some seemed stable, as if they did not move often, while others carried their items on wagons. Sansa saw more fruits then she knew existed, more colored silks and cloths than she thought she could wear in a lifetime, jewels fit for Queen Cersei’s throat.

Sansa heard someone shouting dragon eggs, and she stopped, looking towards the man who was holding up large, polished rocks of many colors. Intrigued, she stepped towards him, falling out of line with the group, hearing Sallah talking with Sandor. She stepped around the man people, holding her long colored skirts. The man was perched on his wagon, holding one of the rocks up in the sun. It shone like an opal.

“Dragon eggs!” he called again, just as Sansa neared.

“The dragons are all dead,” she said, and he looked down at her, smiling large. He crouched down, to get closer to her face.

“They _live_ child, they live! We have seen them, here in Qarth, oh, yes we have.” He held out the rock for her to see. “And those who have seen will pay good gold for any rock even close to an egg.”

“How can you see dragons when they are dead?” Sansa thought of the skulls at King’s Landing she had heard of. She had never seen them, King Robert had had the skulls taken away below the keep, but she knew they were there, somewhere. The dragons died before the Targaryens had.

“Three live, birthed here in the lands of Old Valyria, in the fires of the desert.” He set the rock down, reached out and touched some of Sansa’s hair. “The mother of dragons brought them here, brought their beauty to us. Your’s reminds me of them.”

“Mother of dragons?” Sansa asked, and his grin widened.

“Sweet child, yes! The young mother of dragons, she is one herself! The dragon lives!”

Sansa felt a hand grip her shoulder and pull her back before she could say more, was shadowed by the Hound as he stepped between the two.

“Come,” he said, steering her away from the man, who was calling out about his dragon eggs once again.

“He was speaking of dragons,” Sansa said he the Hound brought her back to Sallah and her party. “The dragons are dead.”

“You’re mistaken,” Sallah said, looking up. “Dragons live here, in old Valyria.”

“How?” Sansa asked, and Sallah smiled.

“Why, the Targaryen girl hatched them in fire, that is how.”

Sansa was quiet, furrowing her brow. _Targaryen girl? How, they all died, during the rebellion._

“My sweetling is so confused,” Sallah mused as they steered towards the docks. “Child, I do not have time to explain fully, and I am sorry. But let me tell you this, the mother of dragons lives, breathes in these lands. And someday, she will fly home, to her kingdom, and her throne. Dragons are fierce- but so are direwolves. A dragon could be a wise ally.”

They had reached the docks, and the Hound was fidgeting, uncomfortable with the conversation. He wished the Lysene trader would just close her mouth and get on her ship.

She kissed both of Sansa’s cheeks, then rose and kissed the Hound’s good cheek. He could sense her slight hesitation.

“Keep her safe,” Sallah whispered to him, “For yourself just as much as her.”

Then she was away from him, brushing Sansa’s hair back off her cheeks, and Sansa gave her a hug, like a child.

“I will look for you when I return from Lys,” Sallah said, “but remember, you are welcome in my home. Send word if you choose to travel, I will see to your comfort.”

This time her kiss was on Sansa’s lips, light anf fluttery, lasting only a breath- then she was gone, towards her ship with her men and serving girls, and Sansa was left to stand in the crowd, more questions than answers rustling on her sweetly kissed lips.

“Who was she talking about?” Sansa asked as they made their way through the crowd, back towards the Inn. “The Targaryen girl?”

“She spoke too much,” Sandor said, “don’t listen to her words.”

“You know something.” Sansa stopped, planted her sandaled feet firmly in the ground, and folded her arms. Sandor was forced to stop as well, lest he leave her in the crowds alone. “Tell me.”

“I know nothing more than what a dog hears,” Sandor said, “and none of it concerns us. Westeros is a sea away- leave these things dead on it’s ground.” He gripped her arm, pulled her along with him, but she continued talking.

“The Targaryens were killed during the revolution,” she said, “All of them.”

“Not all,” Sandor admitted, gritting his teeth. “Queen Rhaella fled to Dragonstone with the youngest, prince Viserys, and the child in her belly. Daenerys was born, though it killed Rhaella. She and her brother fled to the Free Cities.”

Sansa stared up at him, mouth open, blinded by the sunlight but too shocked to truly care. She had always been taught that the Targaryens were _all_ dead. Her father had even told her that.

“Where are they now?” she asked. 

“Viserys is dead,” Sandor said, “Daenerys lives, a widow. I do not know where exactly she is.”

They reached the inn, but Sansa refused to enter. “How do you know this?” she asked, and Sandor cast his eyes away.

“When you’re a Lannister dog, they say many things around you and forget that you have ears, and speak their vile tongue.” He looked hurt, angre, and Sansa could almost feel the rage. “It was talked of in the council, Robert spoke of it at times when he was drunk. I heard what I have from being with the boy while his father was near. Your father would have known more.”

“My father?”

“He sat on the council, he would have heard of all this. Robert intended to have the Targaryen girl murdered. It seems he couldn’t accomplish that, though.”

Sansa said nothing, and Sandor, sick of the heat, the sun, and the talk, walked around the inn instead of inside, off to look after Stranger. Sansa stood there, before clenching her fists and walking back off into the city.

Her father would never have a young girl murdered, she was sure. Or a woman, not for the crime of her bloodline. Eddard had been too good a man for that. Yet, it chilled Sansa to think she knew nothing of this, that he had raised her with the lie that the dragons, both the flying and human flesh, were all dead.

If one lived, she would have a much better claim to the throne than Joffrey, or any Lannister born child. Her family had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for so long, Sansa couldn’t even remember the exact year.

_A dragon is a wise ally_. Sallah’s words echoed in her head, and she found a small tree, growing from a small garden with polished white stones surrounding it. She sat underneath it’s shade, barely noticed the people as they passed quickly, loudly, the sounds of the living city.

A wise ally for what? What could Sansa do with her, aside of kneel and hope that yet another royal woman would take kindness on her. In Qarth, she had no need for such things. She could find herself something to survive on, she was sure. Or she would go to Sallah in Lys, the woman would help her. She did not want to survive on Sandor, not alone, not to watch him work his body to ash so she could sit on cushions like a little lady.

She traced some of the grass that grew in the small patch. In her mind she saw her nightmare wolf tearing Joffrey to pieces, devouirng his flesh, muzzle slick with black blood. Fires blazed around, and she heard a screeching roar, a deafening and chilling sound. Dragonfire.

A lone wolf couldn’t kill a Lion pride- but a dragon could scorch the Earth. Sansa stared down at her dress, looked at one of her delicate hands. She wanted it around Joffrey’s neck, around the neck of every Lannister. She wanted them all dead, to burn, to rot, to decay alone in cold dark of winter and the hot brightness of fire. But alone, she couldn’t hope to even see them die of age in their beds.

With a dragon, she could watch them burn. She traced her left hand, along her bones and veins. Did she have the courage in her? Her father had- he stood up for what he had believed just, and took down King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar. She was sure he did not have anything to do with the others’ deaths, no, not Eddard Stark. Sansa knew she could not sit safely beyond the sea, and simply hope that the Lannisters caught fire and burned. No, she had to act.

She hugged herself, and knew that her hope lay in the Mother of Dragons, this girl who had been dead to her but an hour before. A woman who had no cause to hold love for Sansa, other than a mutual hatred for those who sat the Iron Throne.


	9. Chapter 9

It was well after mid-day when Sansa left her spot. She listened as she traveled Qarth now, to the words people said. She wanted to find the man with the polished rocks, his dragon eggs, but he was gone when she reached the spot. Cursing, she began asking people as they walked, did they know of the dragons? Most shoved her away, not understanding the common tongue, or not interested. The only people who gave her even a glance were the men who leered at her, so pretty a delicate, and utterly alone on the streets.

As the sky grew dark, Sansa was weary and hungry. She had gotten no information, and was not even sure where in the city she was, though she ahd tried to stay in the area between the docks and the inn. Frustrated, she slumped against another single tree, until she heard a wispy, whisper like voice.

“You seek dragons?”

Sansa turned towards it, met a masked face, her Tully blue eys blinded by red. So much red.

“Yes,” Sansa said, “the one they call the Mother of Dragons.”

“Gone now,” the woman said, and Sansa wished she’d take her mask off. “Gone by the sea. You will not find her here.”

Sansa reached up and rubbed her temples, frowning, frustrated. “By sea to where?” she asked, but when she looked up, she was alone. The woman was gone, and the streets were changing, from traders and interested buyers, to men with drinks and women eyeing them and the gold in their pouches. Sansa was quick to straighten herself, and try to find her way back.

The sky was rumbling when she found the inn, threatening a warm storm. She rushed towards the door, colliding with a broad, armored chest, and nearly falling to the ground, had Sandor’s arm not reached out to clutch her quickly.

“Seven bloody hells girl, where have you been?” he asked, eyes wild. “I thought you dead, or stolen.”

“I was looking for a way to find the Targaryen woman,” she said, before she was suddenly hoisted up into Sandor’s arms. He turned and carried her inside, up towards their room. She waited until they were behind the latched door to continue speaking. “I need to find her, Sandor. She is my way home.”

He set her down and glared down at her. “You’ve just set foot in the city, and already you want to go home?”

“Well.” Sansa hesitated. She wasn’t sure what _exactly_ she wanted. Home was her family, was her mother and her siblings, ways of life she knew. But home had not had this beast of a man near her, not so intimately, had not given her the freedom to spread her wings. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I do know I want Joffrey’s head.”

“You don’t need some Targaryen bitch for that,” Sandor said, stripping his sword from his body. “You need enough gold and loyalty back home to bribe someone to do it.”

He touched her face, her cheek, some of her pretty auburn hair. “There’s no safety for you with a dragon. You’re better off if we disappear, somewhere here, in any of these cities. Leave Westeros behind.”

Sansa looked away, her stomach unsettling. She didn’t want to leave it behind. She wasn’t ready to return and leave the possibilities this new land held for her, but she did not want to abandon her desires at home, either. Her family. Her rage.

She didn’t get to speak again, though. Thunder crashed outside and rain began pelting down, and Sandor left her to get them supper. She sat on the bed in the dark, and wondered if she could have both worlds. Set the first one right, and stay here, away from it all. She supposed she couldn’t.

She ate lightly in their room, despite her earlier hunger, watched as Sandor gently cleaned his mail, his sword. While he worked she stripped, unnoticed, and climbed into the bed in the dark, naked against the sheets. She put her thoughts of dragons and blood to rest for the night, decided to enjoy what she had with her presently.

The only light came from the lightning outside, and a small candle Sandor used as he worked. He had stripped down to his breeches in the warm, humid air, and Sansa just stared. She wished he’d turn, he’d see her naked, the blanket only covering up to her waist as she was propped against pillows. She wished he’d stare hungrily at her breasts and drop his sword, crawl into bed with her, that the night would end with lightning in her veins and thunder in her voice.

But he didn’t look at her, despite his eyes never having left her while at sea. Growing concious of herself, Sansa gripped the blanket and pulled it up.

“Why don’t we get some sleep?” she asked, and he shrugged a well toned shoulder.

“Soon, little bird. Close your eyes.” But he never looked.

Sansa slid down to the bed and listened, frustrated and frowning.

Sandor knew she was naked, her pale skin caressing the cheets he wanted to warm so badly. He knew she was watching, and he adh wanted nothing more but to turn to her, to devour her and make her cry out. But he stayed firm, focusing on his sword, which was now well cleaned.

He had hoped once they reached the Free Cities she would be dazzled, have no desire to go back to Westeros. He hoped to have her mesmerized, to have her forget what she left, her snows and her stoic family, to have only him. He’d realized it at sea, having her cradled in his arms during the night, tasting her body and her kisses and sampling her sweet cries. He wanted her, wanted her like he’d never wanted a woman. Wanted her body, her name, her heart.

He was foolish to think he could have her, he told himself that. She was, no matter where he took her, a Highborn lady, a girl once betrothed to the King, a woman with a claim should catastrophe strike her family. And what was he? Second born to a small, insufficient house, sworn to the bloody lions, with a scarred face and a reputation murdered. She had no reason to want to stay with him.

The desire that burned in her could simply be her truly blossoming, and he was all she had.

Sandor set his sword down, blew out the candle. He should get her her own room, get her away from him, but he couldn’t. He stripped completely naked, wanting to crawl into bed with her, to hold her, stroke her, tease and wake her, make her very core tremble. He wanted so many things, so many things he could not have, not forever.

When he did crawl into bed, he slipped an arm around her, held her against him as she slept, kissed her neck, her hair, and silently, bitterly, wept dry tears for the little bird who he had uncaged.


	10. Chapter 10

Sandor was gone come dawn, leaving Sansa to dress and break her fast alone. Lee’Alah claimed he had left at dawn, but said no more. She was not was warm, as open as Sallah was.

Sansa kept herself busy in the inn. She helped Lee’Alah as she freshened up the first room, cleaned the cushions, laid out a new rug. She sat in her room with silk and thread found in a trunk for Sallah, tried to imagine a new dress on herself, something stunning. She sat in the sun outside, listened to the way the people spoke, trying to get bits of this new tongue.

Not once did she let herself think of dragons.

Her days blended as thus. She helped where she could, went around the bazaars with Lee’Alah, while Sandor was gone. She didn’t question him, did not want to. He was earning gold, while she was sitting around devouring time, with not a clue what she should be doing.

Lee’Alah grew fruit behind her inn, rich peaches and bushes of berries. One day, after Sansa had been within the inn for a good week, she asked her to pick some for her, for breaking the next day’s fast. Sansa obliged, after she convinced Lee’Alah to braid her hair into a thick fiery braid, to help her in the heat.

Sansa held a basket and reached up, plucking one from the tree. The peach was heavy, and she dropped it into the basket, enjoying to sound it made. She hummed to herself, singing softly songs from home. She had heard singers on the streets singing in Valyrian, and she wished she could learn. Maybe Lee’Alah knew, or knew someone who did. Maybe she could spend her time learning it. That would be useful, she would have a reason for being then, instead of just sitting. She was sick of sitting, of living like she had at King’s Landing.

She had a good deal of peaches in the basket, and it was growing heavy. She set it down, reaching up towards one that hung high above her head. Frowning as she realized she couldn’t reach, she jumped, to have her finger tips but graze the fruit. Furrowing her brow, irrationally convinced that this peach would be one of the best, she closed the gap between her and the oddly growing tree.

She jumped, grabbed the lowest branch with her hands, hung with her toes just touching the ground. She tried to pull herself up, realized just how physically weak she was. She frowned, then jumped again, pushing one of her sandaled feet against the tree trunk. The movement gave her a boost, and she clutched the branch in her arms, against her breasts, and tried to hoist herself up. She cried out meekly, frustrated when she realized she couldn’t quite do it, and kicked her legs in the air, her dress flowing around her, strands of auburn hair freeing from her braid. She tried again, almost had the branch past her navel, when she heard a few twigs snap. In the effort of trying to turn, she lost her hold, her arms turning to jelly, and she fell, barely holding onto the branch now.

She cried out, shocked, before she felt a pair of large hands on her legs, her thighs, holding her up. The held her tight, steadied her, and she released the branch, being lowered down, leaning against a firm shoulder.

“Were you trying to fly?” Sandor asked, a tinge of worry on his face, but mostly amusement. He laughed, and she frowned, her cheeks flushing.

“I just wanted that!” she exclaimed like a child, pointing to the peach. He looked at it, smirked, and reached up, plucking it down and offering it to her. She folded her arms under her chest, turning her head away. “It’s for Lee’Alah, not me.”

“Would you turn down a knight’s favor?” he asked, his voice mocking, but filled with a laughter she hadn’t heard in the Free Cities. She looked at him and sighed.

“You’re no knight,” she said, wanting to smack him. Instead her fingers wound into his hair, brushing it back, her knuckles ghosting over his scares.

“True. And you’re no proper lady.”

“I am a highborn woman,” Sansa exclaimed, and he laughed harder.

“Aye, climbing a tree like a peasant boy.”

She _did_ smack him then, on his chest, and his laughter grew. It was raspy, hard, but so sweet to her ears. She had seen so little of him, as he disappeared into the city, and she had missed him. He set her down gently, tossing the peach into her basket, and she threw her arms around him, hugging him.

“I didn’t expect you back,” she said, “not until late. You leave me too often.”

“I’m keeping us alive,” he reminded her, before nuzzling into her hair and kissing her neck gently. He hadn’t allowed himself to touch her, to enjoy her, and it was building inside him. She looked so young, so alive there in her messy braid, her dress askew, that he could not resist.

“What _are_ you doing?” Sansa asked, curious. He released her, picked her basket up for her and handed it to her.

“Looking for some place quiet,” he said, “where we can go. Where no one will know you, or I.”

“Isn’t the city enough?” She traced her fingers over one of the peaches, imagining the soft fruit skin to be his instead. Suddenly, she felt hot and suffocating. He only shook his head. She sighed, looking away, and he watched the way her stray hairs fell on her neck. He reached out, moved them, felt her skin and blood and heart living inside her, and his finger tips were on fire.

“I want to take you away,” he said, before he could stop himself, “where it’s just you... and I.”

A lump had built in his throat, and the Hound tried to swallow. His time spent away from Sansa only made him pine for her, as if he was a the love sick girl he sued to tease her for being. But he couldn’t deny wanting her, to take her away. He had to know, to know if she would accept it, being with just him. So far, he had given her an adventure, but a colorful one. Could she stand waking up to him every morning? Could she stand some small, little stone home he could build her?

Could he stand these thoughts? One day, he would imagine her marrying some merchant, or sending word to Dorn perhaps of her, involving the Martells. Somedays he needed to preserve her for her own safety, for her desires of home and winter. And some days he planned to steal her away to a home with him-

_To make her mine._ The thought was so enticing. He had claimed so much of her, her innocence, had shown her how to awaken feelings in her core she hadn’t known where there. But he wanted all of her, her last shred of purity, her love, her life.

Sansa felt his eyes, hot and dark, almost black, and looked back at him. She smiled, kindly, sweetly, didn’t flinch from him as she had once done.

“Then let us go,” she said, so easily, as if she had been planning to run with him her whole life. He stared back at her, felt a hammering in his chest turn to an explosion of wildfire, boiling heat growing in his veins, and he reached for her, took her face in his hands, kissed her sweetly. She laughed into his lips, kissed him back, put one arm around his neck.

He lifted her easily, let her drop the basket by the door to the inn’s kitchen, carried her all the way upstairs in the warm afternoon heat. She nestled into him, so content to be held, she even tipped her head back and laughed as one of his hands gripped her bottom, her cheeks turning a sweet pink, the sound music lacing into Sandor’s ears.

Once he had her in their room, he let her reach up to latch the door, then lay her on their bed. She was still smiling, infectious and honeyed, and he kissed her lips, her eyes, her hair, even her nose, anything to make her giggle. She felt light, his touch making her float, his attention all she had wanted. She thought of leaving with him, of having no one else in the world, and she let the thumping in her chest wash over her. Yes, yes she would like that. Forget Westeros, forget her plans of finding the Targaryen woman. She would run with him, live in the desert sands and bed by moonlight if she had to.

His light kisses had found her neck, growing heavier, and she closed her eyes, tipped her head back, her breasts brushing up against him. He nipped her skin, one hand running along the curve of her hip.

“Have you ever wanted something so badly it hurt?” It was a quiet question, asked into her skin, and Sansa ran her fingers through his hair, slit her blue eyes open to gaze at him.

“Yes,” she whispered, her chest aching, her tummy in knots, a throb between her thighs. She wanted him every moment, in some part of her, some fiber, and it hurt, it _always_ hurt. He pulled him closer, leaned down and kissed him, one of her hands tugging on her dress, exposing soft pink skin. He helped her, undressing her with a sudden fervor, kissing her fiercely, as if he could force the pain from his body, to her mouth, where it was dissolve in her sweetness.

Sansa was naked quickly, she had barely realized it happened. He pushed her further into the bed, kissed down her neck, between her breasts, her navel, directly to the juncture of her thighs. His tongue caressed her gently, and she cried out, the pleasure so sudden- even stronger than the first time he had kissed her, in the dark at sea.

She buried her hands in his hair, moved her hips gently as everything turned to fire, the pressure in her body building, until she cried out and shook, her cunt only growing wetter. The Hound groaned, clutched her thighs, let his tongue plunge into her, and Sansa gasped.

“ _Please_ ,” she whimpered, wanting something, everything, the world and him and not knowing how to ask. He was quick, kissing her as he worked the lacing on his breeches. He tasted like her, her excitement and her need, and she ran her tongue along his upper lip, making him shiver.

The Hound broke away from her only to pull his clothing off, until he was naked as her, before he pushed her down into the soft bed. Her thighs parted, and she felt his excitement brush her thigh. She gasped, wanted him, wanted all of him, could see in his eyes he wanted her too, dark and pooling, nearly black.

But he hesitated, his fingers played against her hip, he tried to kiss her neck. She gripped his chin, forced him to look at her- something she never thought she would need to do.

“Take me,” she said, firm, eyes deep and endless. She sounded not a girl, not the wanton little bird he had pleased at sea. She sounded so sure and firm, need laced beneath something else, something heavy, that Sandor could barely form thoughts.

“I can’t,” he rasped, the words painful to him.

“You’ve wanted to,” she argued, “since King’s Landing, since you took me. No, before. You’ve wanted me.” The burned part of his lip twitched, and she knew it was true. “If I’m going away with you, I have no need of my maidenhood,” she said, before she kissed him, her hands on his face, touching his scars, learning them slowly. She wished to knew every inch of them, ever slight variation.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, let his manhood rub against her sweet sex, made her weak and slick beneath him. He let her convince him, let her beneath his skin and into his blood and bone, to burrow in and become part of his many scars.

One hand guided him as he pushed against her entrance, and she continued to kiss him. She was trembling, knew it would hurt, had heard it did, and wanted to be lost in his kisses when it happened. With a sure but gentle thrust, Sandor was inside her, pushing past her maidenhead. She cried out into his mouth, and he held her tightly, kissed her even as she trembled, as tears found the corners of her eyes.

He kissed them, her hair, every bit of her he could. He let her trembles seep from her body before moving, thrusting into her with such restraint he was sure he would shatter. She sighed at the first thrust, worried her lip at the second, squirmed at the third. Sandor gritted his own teeth, body ready to burst at the mere through of finally _having_ her, after so long. He kissed her breasts, her shoulders, thrust into her faster.

Sansa felt blind, unable to see the room around her. Every thrust created a blinding whiteness, the pairing of his cock inside her, and the friction the course hair on his groin created with the nub he so loved to kiss, making her come undone so quickly. He was hitting something inside her, some bundle of heat and fire, creating sparks in her blood. She clawed at his back, clutched him, tried to get even closer. Her nails made him groan, and when her legs wrapped around his waist Sandor lost control. He drove into her body with such power Sansa feared she would tear open, become nothing but a mess of hot coiling white knots and melted muscle, brittle bone. She cried out to him, screaming his name as she was over taken, swept under a wave of pleasure, drowning in it, the joy going from her sex to her fingers, her toes, her lips and eye lids.

Sandor nuzzled into her neck, gave in to his own need, his name leaving her lips all it took. He spilled his seed inside her, heard her whimper at the heat, and kissed her fiercely, as he had never kissed her before. Sansa felt over taken, and she let him drown her, let the fire dance in their tongues.

When their lips parted, they stared at each other, gasping for breath. Sandor’s eyes were a storm of so many things, and all Sansa could do was _smile_. She wanted to giggle like a child, feeling giddy from her toes to her nose. She felt nothing like she had on the ship, so in control, so serious. She just felt _happy_.

She did laugh as the Hound lay next to her, nuzzling into her hair, breathing in her sweet scent. And as she laughed, he wept, silently, unnoticed, for the girl he loved in his arms.


	11. Chapter 11

When the two finally decided to move from the bed, after enjoying each other’s arms and silent company, Sansa felt different. She felt her dress hung on her body differently, her skin a brighter color, found it easier to square her shoulders and hold her head high. She felt less a girl, more a woman.

 

The Hound was acting no differently, not to her, but he had a sad sort of smile on his face. Sansa wanted to ask, but he was kissing her forehead, telling her he would be back by dark. She let him go, wondered what that smile could mean.

 

Downstairs, Lee’Alah had found her basket with the peaches, and gave Sansa a confused look as to why she hadn’t brought them in. Sansa her a smile and a shrug of her shoulders, before she set to helping her with some small tasks. Evening meant some travelers would be stopping in for dinner, and while Lee’Alah and her serving girls had done most of the work, Sansa was more than happy to help with small things.

 

The dining room was crowded once the streets were dark, loud with men and women laughing. Mostly they were travelers and small traders, and women who would sell the treasure between their legs for gold, but tonight Sansa didn’t mind. She sat drinking sweet wine and nibbling food, listening to them talk in many tongues. She saw a few men dressed for colder weather, and knew them to be of Westeros by the way they easily spoke the common tongue. She kept her distance, but listened in, eyes alert.

 

“Burned, I tell you,” one man was saying. “All burned. Damn Iron Men everywhere too.”

 

“What good’s a king if he can’t keep his home?” They laughed, took another drink.

 

“What good’s a king anyway? Bugger the lions and the wolves and the damn stags. This war has done nothin’ but take our gold.” They agreed, finishing off their drinks and getting another round.

 

Sansa dared to stand, to move closer in the crowded room. She leaned against the wall, holding her cup, letting strangers pass her by and conceal her.

 

“They were children though,” the first one was saying. “The youngest of the Starks. Didn’t deserve no fire, that’s for sure.”

 

Sansa felt her throat tighten. Fire? Youngest? Bran and Rickon were the only Starks in Winterfell, and suddenly she was _sure_ they were talking of Winterfell.

 

“All that’s left is that bloody King,” one spat, and the third spoke as he swallowed his wine.

 

“Didn’t they have two girls?”

 

“Aye,” the first said, “the youngest disappeared, though some say the Queen has her locked up.”

 

“And the other? What was her name...

 

“Sansa” the first said, “aye, the one betrothed to Joffrey. Now that he’s promised to that Margery Tyrell, seems no one has seen or heard of the little thing. Probably in a dungeon somewhere, in case her brother ever gets too lucky.”

 

Sansa nearly dropped her cup. She had heard enough. Quickly, she left the room, running outside into the growing dark. She fell to the ground beneath one of the peach trees, curled up against the trunk, held her knees, and wept so suddenly it hurt.

 

Winterfell had fallen. She had fled, and look what had _happened_. Fire, how could fire burn through snow and stone? And Iron Men? The only Iron Men she knew lived on the islands, and they had no reason to harm Winterfell-

 

_Theon_. Suddenly Sansa was furious. She cried out and threw her cup into the dark, wine spilling on the grass. She cursed the gods, the seven and the old, the ones she did not know. She cursed the Queen, and Joffrey, and all the Lions. Her mother, her brother, the faceless Iron Men who had taken her home.

 

She cursed herself for leaving when they had needed her.

 

“Sansa?”

 

She looked over her shoulder, saw the Hound was standing in the doorway. He walked briskly over, saw her eyes puffy and red, cheeks tear stained. “What is it, little bird?”

 

“Winterfell has fallen,” she said, words slow and thick, lazy in her mouth, on her tongue. “Burned. My brothers, Bran and Rickon... are dead.” She shook, but her tears didn’t fall. “My home is _gone_ , my family is dying, and where am I? I’m a sea away enjoying the sun and wine and bloody well learning to _fuck_!” She stood up, stormed to her wine cup, kicked it further into the dark.

 

Sandor grabbed her then, held her firm in his arms, her back to his chest. She sagged against him, shaking gently.

 

“There was nothing you could have done,” he said, “You’d be in King’s Landing still, hearing this from Joffrey instead. He’d have you cry for him, little bird. Had you even been in Winterfell, you could have done nothing.” He kissed her hair, silently vowing to learn the truth of her words in the morning.

 

Sansa let him guide her upstairs, put her to bed. She slept fitfully, while he lay next to her, wanting to hold her and afraid of it. He had planned to take her again tonight, slower this time, to show himself he had not dreamt it. But now, he could not touch her, even to comfort her.

 

Sansa dreamt that night. She was in Winterfell again, standing on dirty snow, watching it burn. Shrill cries and screams filled the air, bodies littered the ground. They were torn apart, burnt, beyond recognition. Sansa ran towards the burning halls, wanted to burst inside, find her brothers. She saw a small boy standing in the courtyard, burning in the snow, unmoving.

 

“Rickon!” she screamed, running to him, and he looked at her, into her, through her, opened his mouth, and nothing but a piercing scream entered her brain. Then he was crumbled on the ground, bone and ash and burning insides. She heard someone call her as she reached him, looked up, saw Bran clinging to one of the towers. His useless legs were gone, simply _gone_ , fire burning up from where they had once been.

 

He was looking at her, the way Rickon had, into her, and then he let go of the tower, and what remained of him fell into the snow, convulsing. Sansa fell to her knees, sobbing, crying out. The land began to die, now silently, the fires a low crackling, when she heard a howl, thick and piercing. She looked behind her, saw a large Direwolf staring at her, snarling. It leapt, and she screamed, staring into its yellow, rabid eyes.

 

She awoke, her heart in her throat, her scream dying on her lips before it was uttered. She was slick with sweat, and threw the blanket off her. Next to her, Sandor slept, as far from her as he could be. She looked at him, reached out, touched his arm with her fingers, but didn’t wake him. She just wanted to make sure he was truly there.

 

With Bran and Rickon dead, she felt she had to hold tighter to him, for fear he may disappear as well.

 

Clegane discovered the truth the next day, at the docks, from traders from Westeros. If they recognized his scars, they hid it well. Iron Men had taken Winterfell, and Roose Bolton had liberated it, but the holdfast was nothing but snow and ash now, and the youngest Starks were claimed dead. In the South, Joffrey had taken Margery Tyrell as his new future Queen, and the wedding was being planned. He heard nothing of her brother Robb, nor her mother, and of course no word of Arya, long lost.

 

Sandor told her, confirming what she had heard, as gently as he could. They were in the sun, in the streets, and she was sipping wine rich in honey and lemons, a beautiful golden color. She had composed herself now, steeled herself, and just nodded.

 

“We should leave soon,” he said, looking around. “Before someone should recognize one of us.”

 

“What good am I to someone now?” Sansa asked, “I’m no longer meant for Joffrey.”

 

“You’re heir after your brother,” Sandor pointed out, “and even if Winterfell is burnt, your claim is still something. Having you in a lord’s pocket would be a perfect should your brother fall as well.”

 

Sansa hadn’t thought about that. She had had brothers for so long, that she had never thought of Winterfell as her own. She would be married and go off somewhere else, and Robb would have her home- or Bran, or Rickon, should tragedy strike. But now, she was actually a player in the game, actually stood in line.

 

Sansa nodded her agreement. “Where will we go?”

 

“Back to sea,” he said, “take a ship to Astapor, many stop there.” Sansa knew from there, he did not know. She only nodded, she was done questioning. He was right, there was nothing she could do. She could not have saved them had she been in Westeros, nor could she save them now.


	12. Chapter 12

Sandor was insistent, and they packed that night. They carried no trunks, only the saddle bags that would rest on Stranger, through the Hound and purchased larger ones. Everything they left behind, they gave to Lee’Alah, who they said a quick but thankful farewell to in the evening. Sansa asked her to give Sallah her love, if she saw the Lysene trader before Sansa.

 

Then they were off. They rode to the docks, Sandor keeping an arm locked around Sansa, and loaded onto a ship, set for Astapor. Sansa knew the Hound must have made these arrangement earlier, as the men did not balk when they saw them ride up, but seemed to expect them. They had a small cabin, much like the one they had first shared leaving Westeros, but Sansa didn’t mind. She had had her fill of luxury, she just wanted escape now. From the knowledge in her head, form her nightmares, from the bloody kingdom that felt so compelled to kill everyone she loved.

 

The journey was not terribly long, but still a blur for Sansa. The sea made her sick again, and Sandor spent his time with her soothing her, calming her stomach and her nerves. She never left the cabin unless necessary, she knew she looked a mess, and felt it too.

 

When he told her they would reach Astapor come the morning, she cried, joyful, and kissed him for the first time in days. Sansa was sure the sea could bloody well go fuck itself.

 

Astapor, though, was not what she would have liked. Once they docked, she could feel tension rising in the crew, saw the alertness in Sandor’s eyes. They left the ship quietly, and he had her mount Stranger right away, while he led the horse through the masses of people. The city itself may have once been nice, but it seemed crumbling now, lawless. Sansa clutched at the saddle.

 

“What happened?” she asked, and Sandor said the only thing he could,

 

“I don’t know.” His free hand was on the pommel of his sword, ready to draw. Sansa kept her eyes alert, saw some men watching her, felt their eyes like needles.

 

“Sandor,” she said, but he didn’t looked at her. “Sandor, get up here. We need to go-“

 

She was cut off, struck faster than she could have seen. Someone grabbed her, yanked her off the horse, one man tackled the Hound. Two more were reaching for Stranger.

 

Sansa fell to the hard ground, crying out as he man climbed on top of her, ripping at her dress. It tore easily, and he grabbed one of her breasts, one hand squirming under her dress. Sansa gritted her teeth and slapped him, hard on his cheek, so hard he spit blood. When he looked back, he was angry, and he punched her, into her ribs, knocking the wind out of her.

 

Sandor had shoved the man who tackled him off and drawn his sword, slicing clean through one of the ones gripping Stranger’s reins. He ran to Sansa, watched as she kicked the man over her, slapping him again, nails digging on his cheeks. He leaned back, and the ground grabbed him by his hair, dragging him off and plunging his heavy sword down into his body.

 

In a quick movement he sheathed his sword and pulled Sansa up, mounting Stranger while he pulled her up simultaneously. The final man had run, off to join one of the other mobs that had begun. Sandor kicked the horse, and Stranger ran at full speed through the streets.

 

“Hold tight,” he called to Sansa, who listened, her hair disheveled. It blew around her as they ran, as the streets turned from cobblestone to sand, as the shouts grew more and more distant, until the rode form the slvaer city, into the wild hot desert.

 

When Astapor was but a speck behind them, Sandor stoped Stranger, reached around Sansa to help her with the tears in her dress. He knotted it up to help her modesty, ran his fingers over her ribs. She winced, and he knew she was bruising.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked, knowing she wasn’t.

 

“Yes,” she lied, “or I will be. Thank you.” He needed no thanks, that should not have happened in the first place. He should have seen the signs of the city the moment they had reached the docks, should have whisked Sansa away the moment Stranger’s hooves were on the cobblestone. Now, in the desert, he wondered if he had gotten them into an even worse situation.

 

“Where will we go now?” she asked.

 

“I don’t know, little bird,” he admitted. “I hadn’t heard anything of Astapor crumbling. We’ll follow the coast, get to one of the other trading cities.” He touched her hair, knew it would be a long ride. The coast would guide him, but they had little supplies, and Sandor knew if they were to survive, he would have to do something. And soon.

 

They road out towards the sea until the coast line was just visible, then set out in a winding path, following it. Sansa sat in silence as they rode, the sun hot on her skin, swaying with Stranger’s heavy steps. They stopped briefly during the day, finding shade from the occasional skeleton like tree rising from the rich sands near the shore. The sun was the highest and the hottest, and Sandor left Sansa under the tree, with a dagger, as he walked Stranger towards the sea to cool the animal off.

 

Sansa watched, looked around her at nothing but sand and sky and sea. It wouldn’t be unpleasant to be here, had she had a roof over her head and some water. He had given her some when they stopped, and she watched as he had poured some into his snarling helmet, something she had not seen in quite some time, and gave it to Stranger. The Hound himself drank nothing.

 

They rested for a while. Sansa dozed in the sun, awoke only when the Hound was getting him, shifting beneath her, so they could continue on. The rode all night, in the cooler air, Sansa sleeping only when the moon was highest. She knew the Hound had no slept.

 

Sansa’s days blurred together. The second days was the same, a short stop, Stranger in the sea cooling down, the Hound ever awake, like stone. He wouldn’t even eat. Sansa grew worried, her only relief when he pulled out a wineskin and took a single long drink from it, before stowing it back in the saddlebags and helping her on Stranger as they progressed.

 

The third day was the end of their water. Sansa cringed, wished she had thought to hid it from the Hound. She saw the look in his eyes, the worry, the anger, the shame. He was blaming himself for this, and it hurt Sansa. She did not blame him at all- how was he to know of what they had found at Astapor? He had been true that staying in Qarth would not have been safe, this had been no one’s fault.

 

As the day grew cooler, darker, Sansa saw something, far off towards the ocean. She squinted, leaned forward, knew Sandor saw it too by the way he leaned into her body.

 

“Is there someone there?” she asked, realizing the shape that was materializing was a shack, built of driftwood and thatch, at the edge of the muddy sand that covered this part of the beaches. It was not overly large, but large enough that Sandor thought it wouldn’t just be deserted.

 

As they neared, they saw light within, and Sansa saw someone by the sea, no, two figures, walking back. She straightened up, but Sandor kept a hand on the pommel of his sword, hidden by Sansa’s body.

 

“Hello!” Sansa called, as the distance closed. It was a man, somewhere in his thirties, and a boy of about Sansa’s age. They seemed weary, but greeted her.

 

“What business do you have here?” the man asked, and Sansa noted the net filled with fish.

 

“Travel,” the Hound said. “From Astapor.” The boy cringed, and Sansa saw the man straighten up.

 

“We want no trouble,” he said, “you be on your way, keep your city filth far from us.”

 

“We’re not from the city,” Sansa said, resting a hand on the Hound’s thigh to calm him. “And we bring you no trouble. If you have water you can share, we will pay you. In whatever we have that you can need- save for my Lord’s horse, or his sword.”

 

It was odd to hear Sansa call him her lord, but Sandor was in no place to correct her. She was, after all, highborn and trained from birth to deal with people, where he had learned only how to cleave one in two.

 

It took some flattering on Sansa’s part, and sweet words, but they were welcomed to the fisherman’s shack. They had a well, that brimmed with the rains, and filled the waterskin and empty wineskine the travelers had. Sansa gave them gold, more than she had promised them, and the offered to let the two stay the night- though outside, under the overhang of the roof. The inside had no room.

 

Sansa sat in the doorway of the shack, in the light from the inside, watched as Sandor helped the fisherman folding up his nets. She had urged him, pleaded him to be kind, that it would do them good. So far, he had been listening.

 

Next to Sansa, a little girl sat, only a few years old. She had brown curls and a toothy smile, missing a few. She had taken to watching the young Stark girl since they had arrived, and only now had gotten the courage to come closer to her.

 

“Hello,” Sansa said, smiling, and the girl smiled back, broadly. She had a roughly made doll in one hand. Sansa thought back to her own dolls, long lost at King’s Landing. But she was a woman, and had use for no such things. The girl didn’t give her name, and Sansa didn’t think she spoke the common tongue. Her father and eldest brother did, probably from years of trade, but it seemed no one else in the large family had.

 

The girl sat close to Sansa, watching the men on the beach, before she crawled suddenly into Sansa’s lap. Sansa was ridged for a moment, before she relaxed and held the child, playing with her hair. She smelled of the sea and something soft and sweet, something that made Sansa ache with sadness in her core, and with yearning.

 

The girl was sleeping when Sandor and the fisher were done, and her father took the little girl inside, wishing the travelers pleasant sleep. Sansa thanked him, and followed Sandor around to the small, canopied spot they could call their own.

 

The Hound had laid out his bedroll, had unsaddled Stranger and given the horse the freedom to roam as he pleased. Sansa knew come dawn the horse would be waiting for them. She curled up against the Hound, stroked his chest through his dark tunic, smiling at him. She was content, in the dark, laying just above the cool sand.

 

“Are we far from a city?” she asked, felt the Hound’s arm wrap around her.

 

“A few days,” he said, “if this man is correct.” Sansa nestled into him, breathed in his scent, much like he had done to her before.

 

“And then?”

 

“Well get supplies. Maybe we’ll find a nice beach like this, and I can keep you locked up in a little sand castle.” He rolled over her, pinned her to the ground, “would you like that, little bird?”

 

She giggled, played with the curls in his hair. “Would you ever let me out?” she asked playfully.

 

“Only to let you bathe naked in the sea.” She laughed then, and he grinned at her. His burned cheek pulled taught, and Sansa leaned up and kissed it.

 

They left at dawn, thanking the family and setting off on Stranger. Sandor gave Sansa the reins for a bit, though she was sure the only reason the horse didn’t throw her off was because he still sat firmly behind her. Still, she smiled, pat the horse’s neck, and hoped someday to be on a horse of her own, riding again.


	13. Chapter 13

It took another three days, but they came upon Yunkai, as the fisherman had claimed. This time, before entering the city, Sandor had handed Sansa his dagger. She looked at it, then at him, and said in an embarrassed voice,

 

“I’ve never used one.”

 

He poked the tip and simply said, “This goes _in_ them.” She frowned. She knew _that_ , she just didn’t know...

 

_What don’t I know?_ she wondered as they neared the gates. She tucked it into her dress as they entered, and braced herself for what she may see.

 

The city itself was not crumbling, as Astapor had been, though she could feel the tension in the air. The Hound kept Stranger at a canter, trying to keep from the inner city, moving towards the docks. Sansa was beginning to think that the sea was that sibling she had to love, even if it made her sick and annoyed her at times.

 

The sea was like Arya.

 

Sansa cringed. She missed her little sister, even if Arya was a beast, even if she was uncivil and annoying and still a _child_. She missed her, and she wanted to hold her and cry that she was sorry for everything. She owed her that much.

 

Sandor left Sansa on Stranger when they reached the docks. She protested, but he said he needed to feel the city, to know if they would be safe for a night or two. The best way was to hear it from the traders. Strangers puffed angrily when the Hound left, and Sansa stroked his neck, trying to calm him, could feel his energy crackling below his skin.

 

Sansa watched as people passed, none too happy looking, as they had been at Qarth. She saw children playing down the street, taking turns trying to push into an abandoned vendor’s stall. A little girl was speaking in another tongue, Sansa saw her mouth moving, and seemed to be commanding the three boys she was playing with.

 

Sansa looked back at the docks, trying to find Sandor, then back again, and saw the three boys scrambling, heard a muffled cry. Someone had picked the girl up and thrown her over their shoulder, was dragging her off. Sansa gripped Stranger’s reins, kicked her heels into him, but he wouldn’t budge.

 

“Seven hells!” she cursed, and looked around, then back at the fleeing figure. She leapt off, shooting Stranger a glare, before taking off down the road, her light, colored skirts flying around her as she ran. By the time she passed the shambles of the stand she was out of breath, and around the corner they had turned, her chest ached. Sansa cursed herself for a moment, for living up to her highborn expectations, leaving her body weak when she needed it.

 

She heard a scream, sobs, then a loud, wet _smack_ ¸and silence. Her heart was pounding in her ears as she stood in the street, looking around. There were only a few people, and they were giving her unkind glances. She forced herself to walk now, towards where she had heard the noises, saw two men walking out from a small enclave between two buildings, muttering and wiping red stained hands on their tunics. They passed her, and Sansa looked at them through her hair, looking at their faces, putting them to memory.

 

When they were nearly out of sight, she slipped between the buildings, covered her mouth to hide the scream in her throat. The girl was older than she had thought, maybe two years younger than Sansa herself, with tangled blonde hair and pretty pink lips. She lay on the stone, the hair at her scalp matted with blood. It was everywhere, Sansa couldn’t even tell where it began and ended. Next to her head was a large, heavy, blood stained rock.

 

The Stark girl walked over and knelt be the girl, saw her eyes move. Sansa reached out and touched her arm, saw her fingers flex. She took the girl’s hand and gave her a smile, whispering, “Hush child, I’m here.”

 

Sansa didn’t think the girl understood her words, but the girl smiled, clutched her hand. Sansa stroked some of her clean hair, wanting to cry out for help, but knowing it would come to no good end. The people had heard this, seen the men carry her off, and done nothing. And Sansa didn’t even know _why_.

 

When the girl’s eyes closed and her labored breathing ceased, Sansa wept bitterly.

 

Finding Stranger with no rider had put a chill down Sandor’s spine. The horse was fine, as were the few things they had traveled with- Stranger was better than any guard dog. But his concern was Sansa.

 

Hand on the pommel of his sword, he grabbed Stranger’s reins, and was about to mount up, when he saw her, walking through the crowd. Her eyes were puffy, and there was blood on her hands, but the most unnerving part were her eyes. They seemed so dull, unseeing, as if she wasn’t there. They froze Sandor were he stood, and he didn’t move until she reached him.

 

She looked up at him, then climbed onto Stranger herself, and the horse stood there, calm as water, as if he too were unnerved by those ghostly blue eyes.

 

Sandor found them a small inn for the night, by the sea. He asked Sansa what had happened, but she didn’t speak. She played with the dagger he had given her, turning it in her hands, pressing the point to her finger tips but never drawing blood. Finally, he gave up, frustrated and _scared_ of what could be going on in her mind. He spoke at her then, told her just one night, then they’d take a ship. Something about the city having been over thrown, sacked by some sellswords and Unsullied. She explained the Unsullied, but doubted Sansa heard anything.

 

When he said “Targaryen” though, she looked up. He had thought to leave that part out, but he wanted nothing more than a reaction from her.

 

“The Targaryen woman did this,” he said. “She took Astapor, and then marched on Yunkai. She’s freeing the slaves, and leaving the cities to rebuild.” He sat down on the bed next to her. “Leaving them bloody well to rot in truth, though.”

 

Sansa saw dragonfire, smelled blood, saw Joffrey’s stomach torn open, could almost taste the iron on her tongue.

 

Sandor said no more. He dared not leave her, and slept without supper or water or wine, one arm around her stiff body, muttering to the only god he believed in- the Stranger, to release his little bird’s mind.

 

Dawn found Sansa feeling refreshed. The girl was still a thick, heavy memory in her mind, but she saw the world again. She was alive enough to rouse Sandor with her kisses, her hands acting of the seven hells on his manhood.

 

Once Stranger was saddled and they had broken their fast, they headed back to the docks. Clegane intended to get enough water and food to last them, should they get lost in the desert, and to take Sansa from the city. He had grown fond of his joke of keeping her locked in a castle of sand, enough so that he was sure he could build her a roof to keep her dry, off away from the city’s prying eyes.

 

The docks were alive, seething with an energy that neither liked. New ships had arrived in the night, and with horror, Sansa saw one of them flying a red banner with a golden lion. The Hound saw it too, was quick to pull on his cloak and don the hood. His scars were far more recognizable than Sansa herself. She simply hoped the men on the ship had never seen her at King’s Landing.

 

They were screaming, cheering, and Sansa heard words, mainly dead and wolf. She assumed they were screaming Bran and Rickon, and steeled herself. Only when she heard “Tully bitch” did she dismount Stranger and walk towards the men.

 

Sandor was chasing after her quickly, but her steps were light and fast, sure. She stopped by the edge of the dock and called up to one sailor, asking what he was talking about. He looked at her, at her wild auburn hair, her bright colored but worn and torn dress, and gave her a toothy grin.

 

“Aye, could be I was talking about having you on your back, girl!” A few hooted, but she ignored it.

 

“You speak of wolves,” she said, and his face turned serious.

 

“Aye, of the two legged kind. Dead as dead can be, all of them. You speak the common tongue well for a Yunkai whore.” He made to climb down, and Sansa turned, disappearing into the crowd. The Hound grasped her arm before she could get far, dragging her back.

 

“Stupid little bird,” he hissed, “do you want to die?”

 

“He said all the wolves are dead, but Robb still lives. Even if they think Arya and I dead, Robb still lives.”

 

“Put it to rest, and get on the horse. Lannister men are the last thing we need, girl.” Sansa wriggled free from his grip though, and continued through the crowds. Other traders from Westeros had reached Yunkai as well, claiming to have met strong winds and traveled quickly. She heard bits and pieces of talk, mostly of the trade, which ports were still the safest in the kingdom. She had to drift back to the Lannister ship to hear more of the talk.

 

The same sailor she had called to earlier was running around, a bucket on his head, howling within it. She dared to slip onto the ship with the men unloading, though most paid her no mind. She looked a common girl, which simply made them assume her a whore, and they let her be. She walked slowly, listening to the rest of the crew talk.

 

“At a wedding,” one man was saying to another girl he had pressed up against the wall. “Back where I come from, those ain’t even safe now. Him and his mother, dead in the name of the true king.” He pushed on the woman’s gown, exposed one of her breasts. “That’ll end the bloody war fast. Bring some more gold into my pockets.”

 

Sansa turned. She swallowed the lump building in her throat. She had a feeling, a tightening in her gut, that she didn’t need to hear more. Robb was the last wolf, and if they claimed them dead it meant he was gone too. And her mother.

 

She was rushing from the ship, but someone grabbed her as she set her feet on the dock. She looked up at the sailor, grinning toothy and horrid at her.

 

“You’re sweet,” he said, “I bet you taste just like a peach. How about you come back to my cabin girl, and speak filthy words to me. I bet that’s why you know my tongue.”

 

He leaned down to kiss her, and she slapped him. The shock laxed his hand, and she pulled free.

 

“Tell me who died,” she demanded, and he cradled his swelling cheek, looking confused at her.

 

“Robb Stark and his bitch of a mother,” he said, “but you know them not, Yunkai whore.”

 

Sansa saw red then, saw burning blood and smelt ash and death, felt it in her veins. She grabbed him, leaning in close to his face, whispering in a quiet, fierce voice.

 

“I am Sansa, of House Stark,” she hissed, her eyes turning to blue fire, “and my mother was no bitch.” Her hand was quick, and then man felt a hot sting in his gut. He looked down, saw blood, the hilt and the dagger Sansa held, silently pulled from her dress. She pushed it in further, then shoved him. He toppled over, off the deck and into the water, to carry her identity with him to the bottom. If anyone saw her stab him, they paid no heed, and only called out when he fell.

 

She turned, walked away calmly, ice in her blood, to find her Hound.

 

He was mounted on Stranger now, seeming frantic. How the blood _hell_ that girl managed to escape him so often bothered him. She was small and lithe, and be was beginning to realize quick. She hadn’t been quick when they left King’s Landing. She hadn’t been many things.

 

He directed Stranger towards the commotion he was seeing, and didn’t even see her come up next to him. She gripped the saddle, hoisted herself up, and he jerked towards her.

 

“Go,” she said, harsh, and Sandor had Stranger gallop out of there. As they rode through the city, Sandor saw the blood on Sansa’s hand, just a few smears. He grabbed one, traced her palm as she leaned back against him.

 

“Will you tell me what happened this time?”

 

Calmly, her voice not wavering, Sansa whispered, “I killed a man.”

 

He took her outside the city, and they stopped along the coastline, late that night. Sansa left the Hound with his horse and walked to the water, staring down into it, slipping her sandals off and letting its coldness sting her toes. She tugged on her dress, stripped down to just her skin, and walked in, feeling the icy coolness numb her skin, her aches.

 

Robb was dead, her mother was dead. She did not know the details, but she didn’t need to. They were gone. Within a week she had heard of her entire family dying- all but Arya, lost, and Jon, a bastard left for the wall.

 

_I am the last wolf_. She let the water reach up to her shoulders. Her hair splayed around her, like cooling fire in the moonlight. She was all that remained of Winterfell. She was all that remained of the North.

 

Sansa knew then she could not hide for the rest of her life. She knew she had to see Westeros again, to make sure the Lannisters paid the debt they owed for the blood they had spilled. She would have everyone one of them with their head mounted on a spike, as Joffrey had done to her father. She would have the little bastard king walk among them and stare up, into his mother’s lifeless eyeholes, and she would laugh at his terror, drink it down like as fine Arbor wine.

 

She heard her name being called, and looked back. Sandor stood on the shore, calling to her, beckoning her back. _How simple it would be to just dip under, to sleep with the waves and never feel heartache again_.

 

Sansa made her way towards him instead.

 

The Hound watched as she slowly came to him, seeming a ghost in the pale moonlight. A ghost of the girl he swept from King’s Landing, who was all pretty singing and stupid chirping, like the lovely bird she was. This Sansa was different, almost inhuman to him.

 

_”I killed a man.”_ She had said it simply, and spoken no more, and Clegane had not asked about the blood on her hands again. But he wondered. His little bird seemed too terrified of blood, had no notion of how to properly stab a man, and yet she claimed to have taken a life. What had the man done to tear her songbird feathers out so quickly and replace them with quils of steel?

 

He watched as Sansa walked towards him, streams of water rushing down her body, making his blood turn hot in the cool night air. He cursed- this was not the time to want her.

 

“You’ll catch your death,” he said, gathering up her discarded clothing in the sand and trying to not look directly at her. Sansa said nothing, looked up at him with her paling, cold lips.

 

“They’re all dead,” she said, her blue eyes turning nearly grey. “Mother and Robb joined Bran and Rickon. At a wedding.”

 

If the Hound was shocked, he didn’t show it. He knew sooner or later the Stark boy would find his death- though a wedding had not been how he imagined it. And the Lady Catelyn too? The Lannisters must have been toasting high and long to that day.

 

“I’m all that’s left,” Sansa said as Sandor draped his cloak over her naked shoulders. “I’m all that remains of the North.”

 

“All the more reason to keep you far away.” He looked back where he had left Stranger, the towering horse resting in the cool sands. “Come, I’ve got a fire going. You need some sleep.”

 

“I’ve bloody well slept enough.” Sansa reached out, grabbed his arm. “I’ve slept my whole life, I’ve lived in dreams and nightmares, and it’s time for me to wake up. I won’t leave my bloodline to die with me. I won’t leave the North to burn under the Lannisters. I’ve got to go back.”

 

Sandor dropped her clothing, reached out and grabbed her arms. He wanted to shake her, to scream at her that she was a stupid little girl. One girl against a kingdom, she stood no chance.

 

“You’ll die,” he hissed, “You’ll die like the rest of them, Sansa. You have no bannermen, no armies, no bloody sword. They’ll cut your pretty head off and bloody King Joffrey will fuck it while he laughs.” His grip tightened on her when he saw the look in her eyes, the pale fire that called for blood, that knew he was right but did not care. “I won’t let that happen.”

 

“Then come with me.” She looked up through her lashes, with her Tully blues, so soft and bright that they could melt his heart, through the steal and callouses that had hardened over the many years.

 

“I’m one man,” he said, “I can’t bloody well work miracles.”

 

“Then let me go.” She tried to pull free, but he wouldn’t let her. “I’m not asking for a miracle, Sandor. I’m asking for your sword, your loyalty. If you can give me that, that’s all I’ll need. I’ll raise the banners, if I have to hoist them myself. I’ll find swords, if I have to spend the rest of my days paying for them.” She freed one arm, reached up to clutch his fingers that held her other. “But say you’ll come with me.”

 

Sandor _wanted_ to. He saw the raw energy in her eyes, felt it in her voice. Given the proper aid, she could raise the North back to it’s former greatness, he didn’t doubt. But she had nothing, no one to help her. She had no hope. And he couldn’t watch her die, watch the light spill from this eyes, blood from those pretty lips.

 

“I won’t watch you die.” He let go of her, severed the contact. Instantly his chest ached, ached for everything he had begun to build with the girl. Sansa stared, eyes wide, shimmering. He turned and walked away from her, let her naked in the sands, to sit by the fire and soothe his paining heart.

 

Sansa watched him go, did not follow. She stood in the moonlight for a long time, watching him settle by the fire, lay down on his bedroll, stare up at the sky, give in to sleep. She watched and watched and quivered, felt the loss deep in her belly. He would not go with her. If she wanted her home back, she would lose her Hound.

 

She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. He was just a man, just a beast of a man who had swept her from the city to enjoy her in his bed. But she had given to him freely all she could. She had wanted him, had taken as much as she gave, had kissed his scars and stared into those broken black eyes, and wished to drown in them, to find his sorrow and rage and banish it. He was more than just a man. He made her blood boil and her legs quake, made her heart flutter and her mind loose and light.

 

She loved him, with every fiber that made up her body, with every bit of her breaking mind. She loved him, and she couldn’t leave him. But she couldn’t stay- not when the North needed her most.

 

In the high moonlight Sansa crept up to the dead fire. She knelt, still naked, next to him, stroked his hair, his scars. He stirred, and she leaned down, kissing him gently, her hands working to unlace his clothing. As Sandor emerged from slumber, he felt her roaming hands, her soft touches, the cold air hitting his body. He reached up, wrapped an arm around her, thinking he must be dreaming.

 

Sansa kissed him thoroughly, released his manhood from his breeches and stroked him. He groaned, and Sansa crept onto his lap, sinking onto him with a whimper. Her hands clutched at his chest, and his eyes opened. In the moonlight she was like a ghost, with fire in her hair, and Clegane was struck dumb. She moved slowly, until his hands braced her hips, helped her. She seemed so far away from him, floating far above the sand the and sea, in the sky with the burning stars.

 

Sansa leaned down, kissed him hard, trembled with her own quick release. Her fingers tangled in his hair as he spilled inside her, and Sansa wept bitterly, knowing he would not realize. He drifted again, and she knew he would think it all a dream. She stayed atop him, not wanting to move, not wanting to let go. Her body clung to him, though her mind knew it was time for her to go.

 

She stroked his cheeks and kissed him one last time, whispering her plague against his lips.

 

_I love you._

 

Dawn found Sandor stirring alone on his bedroll. He reached a hand up, ran it over his face, remembered the sweetest and most chilling dream he’d ever had.

 

“Little bird,” he rasped, throat dry. He braced himself for her cries of return, her desires to reach out to the North and shield it from the Lannisters. He braced himself for her scowls and her pouting eyes.

 

He didn’t brace himself for silence.

 

He scrambled up, realizing in a trembling heartbeat that he was alone. He got to his feet, called out to her, but the sand and sea was all that surrounded him. Cursing loudly, he mounted Stranger and took off down the sands, sure his little bird could not have gone far. Perhaps she wasn’t gone at all.

 

Sansa sat in the back of a wagon, on her way to the next port. She had a shawl draped up over her shoulders and head to ward off the sun, and felt at the dirk hidden in the folds of her dress. It was all she had dared take, that and a few coins to get her to the next city.

 

She curled up, closed her eyes, ignored the sounds of hooves and wheels on sand, of her companions who had taken her on for many coins, and wished for sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

It took days to reach Meereen, hot, long, lonely days. During the days Sansa slept restlessly, the nights she ached for Sandor’s arms, for his body, his kisses on her lips, his weight between her thighs. She ached for a companion, for someone who understood her tongue, for the one person she ahd grown close to. But he was gone, left in the sands to find his life far away from Westeros, from her intended course.

 

Meereen was not rioting as Astapor and Yunkai had been. Meereen was patrolled by men of many colors with long spears and hard, stoic eyes. Sansa saw them as she walked the streets, thanking the traveling man who had taken her in. They were cold, fierce, but yet she was not truly afraid. She was only intrigued.

 

Few spoke the common tongue, and Sansa spent the majority of her first day in the city trying to find someone who did. A whore, of all people, spoke the most, giving Sansa pretty smiles as she spoke.

 

“How do you know the common tongue?” Sansa asked before her other questions, and cursed herself for still being stupid. It wasn’t important.

 

“My mother from Westeros,” she said, her speech slightly broken. “Came here to follow father when she big with child.” She pointed to herself, giggled out, “me,” then played with her long yellow hair.

 

“I need a ship, to Westeros,” Sansa said, and the girl shook her head.

 

“No ships. Queen has banned them- do not enter or leave without her Unsullied searching them first. She fears slaves, she will not allow slaves to come or go from city.”

 

“Queen?”

 

“Aye, the mother of dragons,” the whore said, and Sansa felt the world stop around her.

 

It had taken Sansa longer than she liked to find where the woman had seated herself as Queen. She was in such shock that she wondered for a bit, before her senses came to her. The guards had stopped her, of course, and did not speak her tongue. Sansa tried to speak slowly, but they understood not a word.

 

“Please, sers,” she said, “I am Sansa, of House Stark, the last of my line from the North of Westeros. I must see the mother of dragons!” They said something in their tongue, and went to shoo her off, when someone called a halt to their actions. At once they turned rigid and tall, and an older man dressed in fine armor emerged.

 

Sansa stared. “Ser Barristan!” she exclaimed, remembering the elder knight of the Kingsguard, and how Joffrey had had him cast aside in favor of the Hound.

 

He took her face in his hand, pinched her chin and removed her shawl. Sansa let him look at her, at the face that had matured since he left King’s Landing, heard his exhale of breath.

 

“By the seven, it really is you, Sansa.”

 

As he led her inside, Sansa tried to explain all that had happened. How she had been swept from King’s Landing and taken across the sea for safety. How she was going to slip into nothingness, to disappear, until she heard of their deaths.

 

“Tragic,” the knight said as they walked, his hand instinctively on the pommel of his sword. “Your brother would have been an usurper, had he stood against Daenerys, but I don’t doubt that he would have bent his knee to her. She’s a good woman, Sansa, what the kingdom needs.”

 

They stopped at the great doors to her solar, and Ser Barristan smoothed Sansa’s hair, give the girl enough hint to straighten her dry, dirty dress. It was soft yellow, the ends tattered from so many long days in the sand.

 

“Speak calmly and truly, little wolf,” the knight said, “my Queen is a kind woman, but she will not take trickery. Nor will she take someone who intends to steal the throne she is working so hard to reclaim.”

 

He said no more and had the doors thrown open. He strolled in, leaving Sansa in the doorway, calling out to the young woman seated on cushions, above all others.

 

“Your Grace,” he said, voice solid, booming, “I present Lady Sansa, of House Stark of Winterfell, the last of her name. She comes from across the sea and the desert.” He looked back, and Sansa gathered her courage and stepped in. Her sandals pattered across the polished stone, and she knew the sound of heavy boots in stride with her was missing. Her Hound should be there with her, ready to draw his sword and cut down any who looked at her cross. He should be, but she had left in the sands, to his fate, without her. A calmer, tranquil fate, she was sure.

 

Sansa stopped before the steps leading to Daenerys began. The woman was milky white, with silver hair, and young, knowing eyes of sweet lavender. Her dress flowed in soft colors, framing her womanly figure. She stared at Sansa with those eyes, and with her, three sets of glowing eyes stared as well.

 

Dragons.

 

Sansa stared in shock, momentarily forgetting herself. One raised it’s head, black as Valyrian steel, and she dug her nails into her palm to bring herself back to her body.

 

“Your Grace,” Sansa said, bowing her head, giving a slight courtsy. “I have heard murmurs of you and your dragons. I’m...I’m pleased to see they’re not myths.”

 

Daenerys shifted, leaned against her palm, and her pretty lips smiled at Sansa.

 

“You’re tense,” she said, “I can see it in your eyes. My children will harm you not, unless I command. And I shall not, Lady Sansa. You hail from Westeros?”

 

“Yes,” Sansa said, “from a broken house, destroyed by the Lannisters. By the family that saw yours to ruins.”

 

Daenerys eyes flashed then, purple fire, an army turning inside her head. Sansa saw it, felt the anger in the air, and knew she had found someone who understood.

 

“They will be in ruins when I reclaim my throne.” She stroked the milky pale dragon’s head. “My children grow larger each day. Soon, I will ride them to King’s Landing with an army, and take back what is mine.”

 

“I want to see them burn.” Sansa spoke without realizing, transfixed by the fire that still burned in the Targaryen’s eyes. “The Lannisters- all of them. I want to watch them burn until their blood is black as ash. They’ve taken everything from me, my home, my family, my very name. Would that I could breathe fire, I’d whisper it into Cersei’s throat herself.”

 

Daenerys did smile then, large and dazzling. She stood, descended down to Sansa, and placed her hands on her shoulders.

 

“I like you, Lady Sansa,” she said, “I think I’d like to see you breathe that fire.”

 

Sansa sat in a bath that night, relaxing in steaming water. It felt good to rub the sand and dirt from her body. She had supped with Daenerys, had laughed with her, and realized they truly were not so different. The unspoken tension was there, that her father, lord Eddard, had aided in the rebellion against her family, but Targaryen blood did not stain his hands directly. Nor did it touch Sansa, and Daenerys was kind enough to say so.

 

The Stark girl dipped lower into the tub, until the sweet smelling water touched her chin. She tapped her fingers along the lip of the tub, should feel elated that she was safe, that she had found an ally to help her rebuild her house, retake the west. The two had not spoken of plans, had simply learned of each other slightly, had talked of a mutual hate for lions. But Sansa knew, knew down in her belly that she could be a part of taking back the iron throne.

 

But she still felt empty. There was something gnawing at her, something clawing from her belly into her chest, to her throat. It had a face, burned and scarred, and a raspy laugh with dark, tumultuous eyes.

 

It called her “little bird” and kissed her as no man would have ever dared.

 

Sansa splashed the water as if to erase Sandor from her mind, folded her arms over her breasts. He had not been willing to go with her. He had not been willing to take up sword for her cause, for the North.

 

But why should he? The North was nothing to him. His lands lay in the west, belonging to his older brother, Gregor. What had she offered him as reward for his service? She had done nothing but demand it, like a child, and then been offended when he was unwilling.

 

_I am a fool_. Sansa sighed, traced her fingers over the surface of the water. _But he is better off. What good could come of trailing me across the free cities? He’ll only have himself to care for now, and can do as he likes, settle where he wishes. I will be a burdon no longer._

 

Sansa slept fitfully that night, with an empty pit in her stomach.

 

Breaking her fast at a real table, of polished stone, with cushioned seats, made Sansa think of Winterfell, or King’s Landing, of the cities left behind. Their tables had been wood, and the rooms and company different, but none the less, it felt more home than a ship at sea.

 

“Walk with me,” Daenerys bid her after, and they strolled the corridors, flanked by ser Barristan, who kept a respectful distance, though Sansa knew he was close enough to hear any words she spoke.

 

“When I take Westeros, I will restore you to Winterfell,” Daenerys said, taking Sansa’s arm in a friendly way. “I’ve thought on it through the night, and decided. You were wronged, as was I. But in return, you must swear fealty to me as the Queen of the seven kingdoms.”

 

She didn’t avoid her point, and Sansa was grateful. She knew she would be asked to bend the knee, and though her knees ached from the many men she had been forced to kneel to, she had strength for one more.

 

“I will bend,” Sansa said, “but no harm must come to my father’s bannermen. They served him well and true to his death, and many my brother Robb after. I want their crimes forgiven.”

 

“I will forgive anyone who will see me Queen,” the mother of dragons said, “except the Lannisters.”

 

“Let them burn,” Sansa said, and Daenerys smiled.

 

“Oh, I intend to.”

 

They laughed at that, stopping at one of the windows to peer out at the city walls, at the desert beyond. Sansa leaned out into the fresh air, breathed deep.

 

“I do wonder, Sansa,” Daenerys said, “how you came across the sea so safely. You said you were taken from King’s Landing?”

 

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat, nodded.

 

“Aye. A good man took me from those walls, and set me free.”

 

“And where is he now?”

 

Sansa stared hard into the distance. “I left him in the sands, by the sea,” she admitted. “I left him so he could be free as well.” She felt Daenerys stroke her arm, the woman’s fingers soft and alluring.

 

“Who was he?”

 

“A Hound,” Sansa said, swore she heard ser Barristan behind her make some noise of disbelief.

 

“You cannot mean Clegane.” Both woman turned to him.

 

“You know him?” Daenerys asked, and the knight nodded.

 

“Yes, your Grace. He replaced me in Joffrey’s kingsguard. A Lannister dog he was, sworn to those lions.”

 

“His house, yes,” Sansa said, “but he was sworn to me, and only me. He freed me from King’s Landing, took me across the sea. Sheltered me, fed me, tried to bury me away from the seven kingdoms so that I could _live_.” Sansa remembered his arms around her, large and encompassing, and missed his mouth in her hair. “He was a good man.”

 

Barristan was frowning, but Daenerys was looking intently at Sansa. She did not speak however, and their walk was silence.

 

Sansa learned more of her brother and mother’s passing. A wedding held by Walder Frey, the old bastard, killing them while they were guests. She heard of another wedding too, a proposed one for Joffrey and Margery Tyrell. When the few ships Daenerys allowed into her port had left the west, it was being planned. Sansa wished them all poison in their wine and daggers in their cakes.

 

She spoke with Daernerys when asked, with her men even less. The servants she spoke to almost naught, and brooded in her hot baths at night. She was angry at herself, at the Hound, at the bloody world for this mess. She was thankful for her dragon kin though, this white woman with fire in her purple eyes.

 

She came in Sansa’s room nights later, as Sansa stood brushing her long hair herself. She came so silently Sansa could have sworn she flew on dragon wings.

 

“Don’t,” Daenerys said as Sansa went to bow her head and mutter “your grace”. “I come as your friend, not your Queen.”

 

Sansa only nodded as Daenerys sat down on her bed.

 

“Tell me of him,” she said, looking curious in her silken night gown, flowing and silver like her hair. “Tell me of your Hound.”

 

“There is naught to tell,” Sansa lied, setting her brush down. “Ser Barristan could tell you of his house, his deeds.”

 

“Not his deeds on these sands.” Daenerys sighed, a silky sound. “Sansa, I see something in your eyes, something I have seen in my own. My Sun and Stars has left me a widow, and I grieve for his loss every day still. I see grieving in your own eyes, a grieving only woman of love know.”

 

Sansa walked to her window, gripped the stone until her knuckles went white.

 

“I’m no maiden,” Daenerys continued, “I’m a mother. My son was born dead to my limp arms, my dragons are all the children I shall ever bare. I have lost husband and child, and friends alike. My own bear turned against me, and I had no choice but to set him free from me.” Sansa looked at her, did not know who she spoke off, but saw sorrow plainly in her eyes. “I am a woman who has lost everything, as are you. Tell me of him, to ease your sorrow.”

 

“He’s a beast,” Sansa said, “a beast with black curls and blacker eyes, and scars that make me tremble. He’s cruel and kind, harsh and gentle. He swept me from King’s Landing and could have had me, taken me on the cold ground with only the trees to hear my screams, but he didn’t. He was slow with me, gentle, even soft. I had to take from him what I wanted...”

 

She trailed for a moment, remembering his rough lips and roughed hands, the way the stubble on his face tickled her skin. She smiled. “He kept me safe as best he could. He held me when the sea gave me sickness, when my blood gave me pain. He fed me, tried to shield me still from the world. He called me his little bird...”

 

She looked at Daenerys then, met her lavender eyes. “I gave myself to him, willingly. I’m not fit to ever marry a lord because of it, and I don’t care. Even when that had been my only hope of raising the North, I didn’t care. I still hear him, feel him, smell him, at night, when I close my eyes. If I could run back along the sea to him, I would. I’d make him see my cause is not lost, I would not demand his support. I’d offer him whatever he wants, land, gold, titles, even marriage to some highborn if he desired it. I’d do anything to have him near me again.”

 

Daenerys stood, walked to Sansa and stroked her soft cheek. The girl looked well beyond her years, her purple eyes having seen horrors akin to Sansa, and some different.

 

She spoke no words, only kissed Sansa softly, on her lips and her forehead, and left her to her memories and regrets.


	15. Chapter 15

Sansa knew it would take time before Daenerys was ready to sail. She Queen had said so herself, telling the girl she had to ready men, and let her dragons go. Sansa was impatient, but she did not argue. She was grateful that there was hope again.

She was walking along the streets of Meereen one hot day, enjoying the sights. Some of the people were getting restless, but it was not so bad that Sansa couldn’t walk. She had no guards of her own, and walked along, hair covered in shimmering blue cloth, her dress matching and some what sheer, giving glimpses of her creamy skin beneath. The fresh air gave her stomach calm, as she had felt ill that morning, woken from a nightmare again of Winterfell and the Direwolf with the rapid yellow eyes.

On her person was a thin dagger, hidden within her dress. Sansa was not so young to think she needed no weapon at all. But she felt as if it would never see light. She bought a peach and ate as she walked, watching a few children running around, memories of the girl dying in her arms threatening to cloud her mind.

She pushed them back. She walked to the docks, saw the few ships at bay. Most would be leaving soon, to continue their trades. Some were meant for Westeros, and Sansa wondered what word they would bring to the kingdom. Traders often had no true alliances except to gold, but word traveled fast from drunken lips.

The sight of the waves made Sansa’s tummy tumble, and she looked at her half eaten peach in sudden disdain. She gave it to a pretty little girl with dark curls running around, who had taken it happily, the juices running down her chin when she bit into it. She was cute, and made Sansa smile.

Sansa sat on the sand along the docks, closing her eyes in the sun. She smelt the salty sea, the scent less undoing than the sight, and the many rich scents of the goods aboard the ships and along the streets. She smelled the sweet flowery scents she wore herself, the faint scent of horses and mules underlying everything.

And she heard the heavy pounding of hooves on the wood of the docks, loud as men called out in surprise. Opening her eyes, Sansa turned, saw a great beast of a horse, black a death, reining up from a man that tried to hold him down, then nearly kicking another in his gut. The men were flustered, calling angrily to the animal.

Sansa knew that horse anywhere, in any kingdom or city.

She scrambled up and ran to the docks, her skirts fluttering around her. She climbed quickly, ungracefully, calling out to the men to step back. They looked at her oddly, and she walked right up to the creature, stroking his muzzle.

“Hello there, Stranger,” she soothed, and he looked at her with wild eyes, but did not kick. The men stared at her, in shock, and she looked back. “Where is his master?” she asked, her heart skipping beats in her chest.

“Aboard that ship,” one pointed, “we’re just tryin’ to get his horse aboard. The captain wants to leave soon.”

“Where do you sail for?” Sansa asked, patting Stranger’s neck now, trying to calm the animal as best she was able.

“Westeros,” the man said, and Sansa thought the world went white.

She left Stranger to them and boarded the ship herself, with a young cabin boy leading her down along the halls. He pointed to a door, said the man was in there, and Sansa thanked him with a copper coin. He scutled off and she leaned against the door, pressing her hand to it. She was nervous suddenly. What if it wasn’t Sandor? What is somehow, someone ahd taken Stranger? What if this was another man entirely?

Or worse, what if it was him, and he sent her away?

It was a risk Sansa knew she had to take, or die with regret heavy in her breast. She pushed the door open, thankful it wasn’t latched, and stepped into the dim cabin before she could be questioned.

Sitting on the bed, cleaning his sword, back to her, she knew was her Hound. He was hunched over, working at the steel, but had frozen upon her entrance. He turned, ready to swing the sword, when he met her eyes, locked them.

Steel clanged on the floor as he dropped the sword and stood, gaping at her.

“Little bird,” he said, and she forgot herself and closed the distance quickly, throwing her arms around his neck. He lifted her up in his big arms, held her close, kissed her hair and temples and eyelids. She stroked his scars, tangled her hands in his hair, nuzzled his neck and chin, kissed his lips softly. “I thought you had gone...”

“I did,” Sansa admitted, “I found a traveler heading to Meereen and bought passage on his wagon. I was going to try and find a ship home, when I... I met someone.” The colors in Sandor’s eyes that burned suddenly were molten hot, Sansa felt the burn and she blushed. “Not... not like you, Sandor,” she tried to reassure him, laying a hand on his chest. “I met the Mother of Dragons.”

“The Targaryen woman?”

“Yes. I’ve met her, and she has promised to help me reclaim the North. When she takes the Iron Throne, Winterfell will be rebuilt, and will be mine again. My father’s bannermen will be forgiven any treasons, and the North can prosper once more.”

The dreamy tone in her eyes made the Hound think of the girl he had first met on her way to King’s Landing, love sick for princes and handsome knights.

“And you trust her?”

“Enough,” Sansa said, “enough to bend my knees to her. Only time will truly tell, though.” She sighed, stroked the hard muscles of his chest, buried under cloth and mail and leather. “What are you doing on this ship? It’s bound for Westeros.”

“Aye, that was the point.” He stepped away from her, picked up his sword and sheathed it. “I knew you had to be trying to get home, it was the only place I knew to go to find you.”

“But you said you wouldn’t watch me die,” Sansa reminded him, remembering the ache in her chest, seeping into her ribs at his words.

“Yes, I did. I bloody well have to die first, it seems.” He twisted a lock of her auburn hair around his finger, and Sansa flew, lifting off the sea and sand, the ache in her chest healed.

The rode Stranger back to Daenerys’s palace. The Unsullied gaurds hesitated to let them pass, but in the end allowed them through, only due to Daenerys’s sudden like for the Stark girl. Stranger was handed over to be watered and fed and groomed, and Sansa led a hesitant Hound through the winding, polished stone halls.

He didn’t like this, he could admit to himself. He was one man, suddenly surrounded by an army, one including dragons. Dragons meant fire, and fire meant the absolute end to everything. But Sansa was holding his hands and giddy like a child, wanting him to meet Daenerys, wanting to put his fears to rest. He could do nothing except oblige her.

They stopped outside her solar, and the Unsullied guards looked at her. They did not speak her tongue, but recognized her, and slipped inside. Moments later, ser Barristan emerged, giving Sansa a gentle smile-

And frowning when he saw the Hound.

“Clegane,” he nearly spat. Sandor smirked his devious smile.

“Selmy, looking better now that you’re not in white.” Sansa looked at him, frowning, and stood firmly between the men.

“Ser Barristan,” she said gently, “I would like Her grace to meet Sandor. He has done so much for me, he deserves to have a face in her mind.”

“Not a pretty face,” Barristan said, but led them in, hand gripping his sword. The Hound gave an annoyed grunt, but followed Sansa, hand resting on the pommel of his own blade.

Daenerys was sitting atop her cushions, feeding bits of charred meat to one of her dragons as the other two slept. It was the milky cream one, though Sansa didn’t know its name. She could not remember any of their names.

“Sansa,” she said when she saw her, smiling. “I trust your walk was well? Did the air cleanse you?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, bowing her head. She was the perfect image of a highborn lady, Sandor realized- even after all that had happened. She was clean, her hair calm waves of fire, in a fresh dress, holding her head high, but knowing when to bow to the young woman before them. She had not forgotten anything she learned, even if he had thought so many nights when she had warmed his bed so willingly.

“This is Sandor Clegane,” she was saying, and the Hound realized he had not heard anything else she had said. Daenerys eyed him for a moment, then stood and descended the stone steps, her dragon nestling into her cushions. She stopped in front of him, eyes roaming, taking him in, in such a way that it made Sandor want to fidget. He stood rigid though.

“You’re the one that haunts my wolf so,” she said, reaching out, her milky ghost like hand running over his tarnished mail and leather, as she circled him. She drank in his scars, his dark fire eyes, and the energy she felt radiating off Sansa, so close. “She feared you gone.”

“She’s the one who left,” he said, looking at his little bird. “I was trying to find her.”

Daenerys stopped in front of them again, and smiled. “I’m glad you were found, it will let her sleep easily at night. And a lady should never be without a shield.” She looked at Sansa, and while she kept a hand resting on the Hound’s chest, reached out and cupped her soft cheek. She stroked once, eyes boring into Sansa, and gave her a soft, knowing smile, though she did not speak.


	16. Chapter 16

Sandor was put up in Sansa’s own room, which made the Stark girl feel much more secure. Though she trusted Daenerys, and had begun to trust ser Barristan, she still felt safer knowing the Hound was right by her side.

 

He was sitting in the large tub that she had bathed in earlier, soaking in hot water, attempting to look none too pleased, though Sansa knew it was a farce. She could see it in his dark eyes.

 

She sat next to him, in a cushioned chair she had pulled over, and was stroking his dark hair. He had tried to chase her off so he could have some privacy, but she would have none of it. She had left him once and regretted it, even if they had not been separate for too drastically long. Still, she would allow no distance again. Not from the Hound she loved so.

 

“A man has no privacy,” he grumbled, but leaned his head back to let her caress his scalp, toy with his hair. Sansa said nothing, just smiled softly, felt the heat rising from the water and his body, the thick scent of strong soap and the sweet scents laced in her own hair, on her skin. “So what does your dragon Queen intend to do with you?”

 

Sansa looked into his dark eyes, and raised one pale shoulder in a delicate shrug.

 

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “All I know is that she fully intends to retake the Iron Throne. And when she does, she will restore me to the North. She is the army I need, and if the consequence is that I must wait for her dragons to grow, her army to swell, so be it. With her, I stand a far better chance than alone.”

 

“Perhaps,” Sandor mused, running the soap over his tight chest. “Or you could call to your father’s men, and pray that they fall behind you like they did your brother.”

 

“No,” Sansa said, wishing it could be so. “No, there is too much chaos. Daenerys has told me as much. Any trader from Westeros that comes to her port is paid for knowledge of the kingdom, even if it is trivial. She said the North is slipping to chaos- I would stand no chance simply returning, not as I am now. I need to have the promise of her army, the promise of a future for the land.”

 

Sandor said nothing, continued to wash himself quietly, while Sansa mused in her own silence. She had thought of trying to rally her father’s bannermen, Robb’s men, to see if they would ride behind her instead of a man. She had told Daenerys as much, had seen the doubt in her lavender eyes. Sansa had been told the men would not gather, not in the numbers she needed behind her. She was a woman, and men would not follow her unless extra care was taken. Daenerys promised that when she had her full army, her dragons, they would flock to Sansa, they would grow to see that she could be just as much of a leader as Robb could have been.

 

Sansa wasn’t sure she could be, though. What did she know of ruling anything? She had been brought up to be a proper lady, who left these matters to men. And now, there were no men to leave them to, and she cursed her entire up bringing for not having prepared her. She would have to learn all she could from Daenerys, in the time they had.

 

“Sansa?” She looked down, saw Sandor was gazing at her intently. He had used her name, she knew she must have betrayed some of her thoughts on her face. “What songs are playing in your head, girl?”

 

“Stupid songs,” she said, leaning down to kiss his forehead, before standing and walking to her window, to leave him to his cleanliness, and her to the stars.

 

In the dark of nights, Sansa felt snow. Ice in the air instead of heat, white, crisp snow around her instead of sand. She walked slowly, in the black of night, no moon or stars around her. Her heart was hammering, but Sansa did not feel the prickling of true fear in her spine. Only confusion, disorientation. Sansa stumbled, fell down into the snow. The coolness seeped through her fingers, pleasantly so. Sansa smiled, followed the snow with her eyes far into the distance, saw something slowly appearing, as if being carved into the bark of night’s tree.

 

Winterfell. Home. Growing, looming, in ruins, but still home. Sansa stared, mesmerized, realizing it has truly been so long since she was home. Years. Her fourteenth name day had come and gone while she fled from Westeros, and still she had not seen Winterfell’s snows.

 

She closed her eyes. Smelled snow and ash, and something metallic, irony. Blood. Her Tully blues slit open, and she turned, looked over her shoulder.

 

Standing behind her was the Direwolf, dark grey, black running along it’s head and back to melt in with the dark ashen color of the rest of its body. Its eyes were still rapid yellow, and bore into her deeply. It didn’t bare its teeth, just watched her, unmoving. Sansa turned fully, sat in the snow, and reached out a hand to it, wanting to touch its fur. It crept forward, nose to her hand, before she saw it’s teeth, white slashing in the darkness, heard its growl.

 

In that instant it lunged, and she squeezed her eyes shut, ready to feel its teeth dig into her throat, rip it out. Ready to die as it ate her alive, starting at her soft belly. But the feelings did not come. She peeked through her lashes, saw nothing but darkness before her. She turned, and behind her the Dire wolf hunched, a lion lying below it, bleeding in the snow. It’s throat has been ripped out, and it stared lifeless at Sansa, it’s head heavy with a set of iron antlers. It’s blood smelled like roses.

 

The Direwolf looked back at Sansa, muzzle bloodied, and let out a sweet howl. Around her, Sansa heard more, and from the darkness more emerged. They stared at her, all with those yellow eyes, and Sansa could see those eyes in the distant, in Winterfell. They were guarding her home, she realized as she scrambled to her knees. The first Direwolf stalked back to her, and Sansa wrapped her arms around it, nuzzling into its soft, thick fur. It smelt of blood and fire, hot to the touch, and Sansa swore she melted into the creature.

 

She awoke in the night, in her bed, wrapped in Sandor’s arms. She must have moved, for he pulled her closer, his naked skin flush to hers. She sighed, looked up at the ceiling, then closed her eyes. She wished for that army of Direwolves, to prowl the ruins if Winterfell and keep it safe, as she worked to rebuild it. She wished for wolves that ate lions, slew them in the cold snow and smelled of their sweet blood. She could almost taste it on her tongue.

 

She curled into Sandor, kissed his collarbone, and was thankful she had a hound at least to guard her.


	17. Chapter 17

“I will send you before I go myself,” Daenerys said as she paced in her solar. Sansa sat on her cushions, off to the side so as not to invade on Daenerys’s throne space. The Mother of Dragons had a fervor in her voice and fire in her eyes that made Sansa weak in the knees. Her skirts flew around her as she walked, and she was so alive compared to Ser Barristan, who stood as a stone still by her seat. Sandor stood behind Sansa, though Sansa wished he was reclining with her.

“You can rally the North with promises of my return,” she continued. “Unite them. You’ll have a ship, some men, and banners of both our houses. If we can influence even a few to support my claim, the rest will follow. I am sure of it.”

Sansa only nodded. She wasn’t convinced, but it meant she would be returning home sooner than she had thought. Maybe within a year. That was enough to put a song in her Tully blue eyes.

“Maybe if they see former Lannister men with you, they will be swayed further.” She was looking at the Hound now, who looked straight back, his gaze not wavering. He had spent enough time at Joffrey’s heels, he would not cower for this woman. He would not cower for anyone again. She held his stare for a moment, then looked away, satisfied. “Yes, yes, this could work. I will have a ship prepared, the banners sown. I will speak with my generals, and we will decide how many men to spare. And Sansa, you will tell them of my dragons, of the glory that house Targaryen can bring back to Westeros.”

“As you say, your Grace.” Sansa felt queasy thinking of returning home, her tummy rolling like the seas. She did not disagree with Daenerys though, she did not mind the idea of telling the North of her. She wear a fierce woman who looked like snow- they could appreciate her, even if her dragons were of hot fire and not ice.

Sansa reached up and pushed her hair out of her face, taking a deep breath. She must have looked pale, for Daenerys stopped her pacing and walked over, kneeling down next to her.

“Are you ill?” she asked, swiping her hand over Sansa’s forehead, letting it rest on Sansa’s own hand in her hair.

“Excited,” Sansa said, “nervous, that is all. My nerves have always left my tummy ill. Sandor can tell you how sick I was at sea.”

The Hound smirked, reached down to rest a hand on her shoulder. “Aye, she was a mess.” He gripped her firmly, reassuringly, then pulled back. He had stood so many times in court, it came as a second nature, though he seemed different about it- as if he chose to stand, was not commanded. That was true though- Sansa did not command him to guard her, she asked him to join her. She had asked before they slept for his sword, for his life, in return for anything she could give him. Land, titles, whatever he desired. She would give him half the North if she could, if it meant he would stand by her side.

“Little bird,” he’s said, nearly laughing, running his fingers through her hair. He’d kissed her, heavy and needy, held her on his lap as she clung to him, bodies entangled in the most intimate way. “You’re all I want.”

The words tangled in her hair with his whisper as she clung to him, her nails digging into his back. “You have me, then,” she’d responded, kissing him then, and not releasing his mouth until they had both taken their pleasure.

Daenerys stood, though her eyes were not satisfied, and excused herself with her shield to find her generals and plan. Sansa herself swept back to her chambers, to pen to all the lord bannermen she could recall. She knew she would burn all the letters and write again, but it did not matter. She must try, she must practice. She knew some of them she must write to, try to gain some support before her landing. Even if it was just tolerance, it would be enough to start. Though she did not dare write to every Northern Lord, a few had always been loyal, and she would begin there.

Days passed as such. Daenerys spoke of plans, spent many hours with her generals, and Sansa with her letters. She walked with Daenerys to watch her men train, sat with her when she could to listen to war plans. She would need to learn, she would need to command, though Sansa did not think she could.

“I have never learned of war,” she admitted, looking at the maps strewn out on the table. “It was not my place.”

“Nor mine,” Daenerys said, “but my brother shared his ambitions with me, and I learned.” Sansa sighed.

“I do not know if I can learn before I return, not with the skill needed.” She looked around the tent, but saw only strangers, save for one. She did not want to ask one of Daenerys’s generals to come with her and guide her battles, should there be any. It was an intrusion, and a request she did not feel entitled to. She turned to the Hound, gave him pleading eyes, and for a moment he was stoic, before he sighed.

“What is it, little bird?” A few men gave them looks at the pet name, but Sansa didn’t care.

“You know battle better than I do.”

“Aye, I know a sword and how to cut a man in two. I do not know how to bloody well plan a war, though.”

“It is alright,” Daenerys said, leaning against the table. “I will not be far behind you. You should not need to plan a battle. Still, if you would be so kind as to guide Lady Sansa, should to need arise, I would be most pleased, Clegane.”

Sandor’s dark eyes shifted in some annoyance, but he said nothing, and his silence was affirmation enough. Daenerys continued to try to teach Sansa still, and the girl tried to learn, though she had not the head for battle. She felt she would do much better winning loyalty than winning battles.

The day was hot, and Sansa sat in the shade later that day, alone, as rare as that was. Sandor had wanted to get a better look at the way Daenerys’s men fought and trained, and she left with him and her guards to oblige him. Sansa had crept away to the shade, feeling faint.

She regretted not breaking her fast that day. She had stayed up into the night with her letters, even as Sandor slept, and when dawn came have given in to more sleep at the cost of food. Now she felt light and dizzy, and had she not been sitting she feared she may have fallen.

She closed her eyes and thought of snow again. She missed it, missed everything of home. She tried to recall every house sigil in her mind that had sworn loyalty to her father, but it was hard, and growing harder. She knew some had fallen away, given themselves to the lions, and she dared not write them to tell them she was returning. The current rumor from the traders was that Cersei was claiming Sansa dead, and if so, Sansa intended her to think she was dead until Daenerys rode in with her dragons, and she rode in from the North-

With an army of yellow eyed wolves.

Sansa smiled.

“What has you so pleased?” She opened her eyes, saw Daenerys looking at her. The Queen walked over, settled down next to Sansa in the shade.

“Just thinking of home,” she admitted. “I miss it so.”

“I’m sure.” Daenerys played with the hem on Sansa’s skirts. “You look pale, how are you feeling?”

Sansa shrugged a single shoulder. “I did not eat this morning is all.” Daenerys eyed her, was silent for a time, but when she spoke, it was with a caution Sansa had not heard from her.

“You told me you were no maid,” she said, “is your Hound the only one?”

Sansa looked at her, shocked at such a private question, but saw no harm. “Yes,” she admitted.

“Has he taken you recently?”

That made Sansa blush. She covered her mouth, wanting to hide her entire face, as she thought of Sandor on top of her. He had had her every night since she found him, at least once. And he had had her the night she left him, in the sand under the ghostly moon.

“I can see it on your face,” Daenerys said, “though you shouldn’t act such a child about it. Khal Drogo took me in front of his people. Were I given the chance, I would let my Sun and Stars take me in front of my whole Kingdom. There is nothing to blush about.” Daenerys looked away for a moment, in sadness, and Sansa reached down and took her hand. She knew so much loss, heartache, that Sansa felt as if there was something between them, knotting them together. Blood and ash and flame, leaving them melted, seeping into each other’s skin. Daenerys knew her hurt and her own.

The silence lasted only a moment before Daenerys was looking at her again, speaking. “Your face says he has. Sansa, have you thought that you might be with child?”

Sansa laughed then, rich and thick, throwing her head back. When it subsided she looked at Daenerys, but her unwavering eyes calmed her instantly.

“You were being serious?”

“When was your blood last?” Her question was the answer, and Sansa paled. She thought, realized it had been at sea, so long ago. She remembered Sallah’s words, that she was young and her blood would come as it pleased, but they did not calm the blood suddenly hammering through her veins.

Daenerys squeezed her hand, was smiling at her. “You know it to be true,” she said, “trust me. You forget I am a mother, I remember how my body betrayed me.”

Sansa said nothing, but squeezed Daenerys’s hand back, her world spinning.

She had begged the Queen’s silence, which Daenerys gave her, for the moment. Sansa had stolen back to her room, out of the heat and sun, and paced. Her mind was racing, thoughts coming and going before she realized they existed.

She was unmarried. Her child would be a bastard. She was outwardly spoiled now, everyone would know. She had a war to help win, men to win over- how could she do that with a babe in her belly or at her breast?

She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands, hiding. She did not weep, her eyes were dry, did not ache to cry. Though the tension in her was high, she couldn’t bring her chest to feel heavy and constricted.

Her baby was Sandor’s child. Of that there was no doubt. The thought alone gave her tummy butterflies. Had she not thought that someday it may come to this? She loved, even if she ahd never spoken the words except when he slept. She would never marry, never take a lord to her bed, so long as he lived. When the war was done, Sansa fully intended to raise her courage and ask him he loved her as well, if he’d take her as his wife and keep Winterfell warm with her.

Now, suddenly, she felt those plans crash. What if he didn’t? What if he did not want her? With a bastard in her belly, what would she do? She’d have her home restored to her when Daenerys took the throne, but would she live her life alone?

She lay back, a hand resting on her belly. _No_ she thought, _not alone. I’d have our child. I’d have a piece of Sandor forever_.

That night she drank weak wine, as she remembered her mother drinking when she had Rickon inside her- sweetened with much honey and cinnamon. She supped with Daenerys, was thankful their talk was of war plans and ships, of the banners being sewn.

Sansa curled up into her bed that night, not watching Sandor as he undressed. He spoke of Daenerys’s men, but she did not hear. She heard only the blood humming in her head, her heart pounding within her ribs. When he locked his arms around her and nuzzled her hair, kissed her neck playful, Sansa grew stiff, clutching at the sheets.

“Little bird?” The Hound whispered, pulling back. He felt her tension, the way she had pulled ever so slightly away. “What’s wrong?”

Sansa was quiet for a moment, trying to remember to breathe. “What will you do when the war’s over?”

Sandor was quiet, puzzled. She had never asked him what he intended to do with himself, had never seemed to put too much thought into the future beyond taking back her home and paying the Lannisters’ their debt. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “watch you rule the North, I’d say.”

“You’ll stay with me?” Sandor gripped Sansa, rolled her onto her back and loomed over her, looking down into her blue eyes.

“Aye girl, I’ll stay with you. Where would you have me go?” She said nothing. “I’ll watch you rule, watch you grow old, watch you marry some bloody lord if I have to.”

“I won’t marry,” Sansa said, reaching up and tentatively touching his scars. “I won’t even entertain the idea. Not while you live,” She trailed off, her cheeks turning a pretty pink. “Not unless...”

“Unless what, little bird?”

She stroked his scars, twisted her fingers in some of his hair. He could see her mind playing behind her eyes, fast and fierce and laced with fear, apprehension.

“Unless I were to marry you.” Sansa was a deep red now, and Sandor felt his chest growing tight, deliciously so. She looked so young, but her eyes were old. She was a girl, but only in years.

He kissed her softly, engulfed her protectively. His little bird. She’d take him as her husband, as her lord of Winterfell? She’d take him beyond her bed, beyond her shield.

“You look as if I’d refuse,” he whispered, kissing the tip of her nose.

“I’m just a stupid girl,” Sansa said, “why wouldn’t you?”

He kissed her again for his answer, long and deep, making her whimper and clutch at his chest, making her quiver. He trailed kissed along her cheek, nipped at her earlobe, then dipped down to her neck again. This time she didn’t stiffen, she turned to liquid under his touch.

“You’re blind Sansa,” he said, one hand stroking along her side, the curve of her hip. “I’ve taken you across the sea, where we’re safe, only to agree to follow you back to the very lands we ran from. I’ve never wanted to give everything to someone, not until you.”

He was looming over her again, and Sansa felt her heart in her throat. She was trembling.

“I’ve loved you since you were just a stupid girl,” he admitted, though hie eyes grew dark and stormy. Sansa realized he still feared she’d turn him away, could see it in those dark pools, in the extra rasp to his voice. “I’ll follow you until you die, Sansa. I’ll protect you until _I_ die.”

She smiled at him, her tongue failing her. She wanted to say so many things, but the words strangled in her throat, died on her lips. Instead she leaned up, kissed him, caressed his scars that she had grown to love so much. She felt her cheeks growing wet, and realized she was crying, softly and silently. The Hound wiped some away, looked concerned, but she just smiled more.

“I’m with child,” she blurted then. The moment the words left her lips she grew very serious, and cursed herself. She had gotten so caught up in his words she had thought it safe.

He looked down at her, his mouth a straight line, his eyes pouring into her. He didn’t speak. Sansa stared up at him, realized she was trembling more.

“Say it again.”

Sansa’s lips quivered, so soft and pink, and the Hound held his breath. He must have heard wrong. Surely she hadn’t just spoken those words.

“I’m... I’m with child, Sandor.” Her eyes darted away, and Sandor felt his elbows grow weak, threatening to collapse him to the bed. His chest, which had been tight, grew hot, fiery, exploded in these soft shudders running through his body.

He leaned down and kissed her, claimed her mouth with such a fervor that Sansa gasped. One of his hands slipped between them, pressed gently to her still flat belly. She whimpered as his tongue stroked hers, wrapped her arms around his neck and dug her nails into his skin. He bit her lip, made Sansa whimper, before he tore at her dress.

The Stark girl was confused, but she did not care. If her confession drove Sandor into a fit of lust and passion, she was not one to challenge it. As his lips explored her, took her nipples gently between them, his tongue teasing the buds, she sighed and arched, dug her hands into his hair and guided his head further down.

Sansa peaked once to his mouth, and once again as he entered her. He pressed her to the bed and kissed her through the waves, letting her shudder around him, into him, letting her cry out and whimper and beg to the seven for more. He did not believe in the gods, but for one night he was willing to pretend he did to answer her prayers.

His thoughts were racing, his body was acting of its own accord. All he knew is that she had set him on fire. He had done this to her- he’d put a life into her, he’d stolen her from any other man who would have dared to think she could be his. It drove him mad with desire, with pride, a true kind that made his chest swell, one he had not felt in this life. He kissed her fiercely as she whimpered her love for him, how she would never leave his side again. It didn’t matter, in that moment it seemed as if the two could not be separated even by dragonfire.

When he finally gave into his pleasure, Sandor buried his face into her hair, felt her wrap her legs around him and squeeze as her own pleasure exploded white hot in her belly. She smelled of honey and desire, of richness and need. For a moment he swore he was dead and that she was the end all of women, the very being meant to take him away to whatever lie beyond.

But as his pleasure ebbed, as he came down from the sweet high, he knew she was still Sansa, still his little bird. Still his Lady of Winterfell, someday.

He watched her chest heaving still with heavy breaths as his hand splayed on her belly, as he imagined how she’d grow with her child. With _his_ child.

“You’re not upset,” she whispered, reaching down to place her hand over his. He laughed then, loud and rich and raspy.

“No little bird, I’m not.” Their fingers laced together. “I’d dare say you’ve turned me from a bloody beast to a man.”

Sansa smiled, her heart fluttering. It was all going to be alright.


	18. Epilogue

The air was sweet and warm, it smelled of honey. Sansa breathed deeply, her eyes closed. She was tired, she had been for the past few days, but she was content. The ache between her thighs was dulling, and her head was clearing from the dreamwine she had been given the first two nights.

She heard a cry, and without hesitation stood from her bed and walked over to the wooden crib Daenerys had gifted her. She bent down, scooped up the bundle within, held the babe to her and rocked slowly. The crying ceased as quickly as it had begun, and Sansa smiled down at the little girl in her arms.

She was the most beautiful thing Sansa had ever seen, she had said so when she had first been laid in her arms days before. Her hair had a ghosting of near black hair, hair that Sansa knew would grow in thick dark curls like her father. Her eyes were that rich Tully blue, so vibrant that Sansa shivered when she looked at them at times.

“She looks like you,” Sandor had said, stroking Sansa’s cheek the night she had been born. Sansa had laughed. She may look like Sansa because she would be a woman someday, but she had the Clegane hair, much like Stark hair Sansa mused. Sansa was sure it would be very obvious as she grew who her father was.

“Is she awake?”

Sansa turned. Sandor stood in the doorway. He was clad ins mail and boiled leather, had just sheathed his sword. He had been down with the men, Sansa knew. The small troop Daenerys had decided to send with them to the North. Since the Queen had made her decision, Sandor had taken it upon himself to beat them all nearly bloody in training. He’d be damned before he left his lady’s safety to half trained boys.

“Yes,” Sansa said, sitting down on the bed. Her hair was in a loose braid, draped over one delicate shoulder. Sandor walked over and kissed her temple, then looked down at the little girl in her arms. He crouched down to kiss her forehead, and the girl giggled. The only other person aside of Sansa to look beyond his scars, to not shudder from his kiss.

Sandor couldn’t love her more.

He hadn’t loved Sansa’s choice of a name at first. He expected Catelyn, for her mother, or Arya for her sister. But hearing her say Daenah had made him question her when they were alone with the sleeping babe.

“What better way to keep her favor than to name a child after her?” Sansa had asked. “Should our blood ever become bad, I pray she’ll remember the girl is her namesake.”

Sandor had wanted to protest, but he knew his little bird was being smart. She did not know battlefields, but she knew politics, or was learning. So he had relented, but he grew to love the name with each murmur of it to the little girl.

He straightened up. “Daenerys wants to see you,” he said, helping her stand from the bed. “I can tell her you’re in no way to see her.”

“No,” Sansa said, adjusting her hold on Daenah and smoothing her dress in one quick movement. “I’d like to see her.”

Sandor escorted her through the halls to Daenerys’s solar. Sansa found it strange he still acted her sworn shield, though he had taken no vows in front of anyone except her in the night to protect her such. He was the father of her child, he should be walking along side her, with guards around _him_ , though Sansa knew the day the Hound needed guards was the day he stuck his sword into his own belly.

They were allowed in and Daenerys smiled from her cushions. Her dragons slept in the afternoon lull.

“Sansa,” she said, standing and walking to her. “How are you faring?”

“Well,” she said, kissing the Queen’s cheek. “Daenah sleeps more soundly than I do.”

Daenerys laughed and looked at the little child. “She is a pretty thing. She’s going to rival you one day, Sansa.” The two laughed, and while Sandor wanted to grunt in boredom, he could agree. No one would surpass Sansa’s beauty, no one except his little girl. She’d be equal someday, in her own glory.

“Your Grace,” ser Barristan cut in, “I am sure the lady Sansa is tired. Mayhaps you should discuss your plans for her and the little Daenah Snow and allow her to return to rest.”

Sansa’s head jerked towards him. “Ser,” she said, her voice loud, louder than even she meant. “You forget yourself. My daughter is no Snow- my daughter is a Stark.” Sansa looked at the little child in her arms. She knew people would give her the bastard name of her mother’s home, but Sansa would not allow it. She would legitimize her at every moment, though she intended to do it properly. She had asked Daenerys to legitimize her, as a King could, and Sansa would not dare to think Saenerys as Queen could not.

She had agreed, and from the look she was giving ser Barristan, she had not forgetten. “Sansa is right, _ser_ , Daenah is a Stark. The next Stark of Winterfell, after her mother. We’d best not forget.” She turned back to Sansa. “But my good knight is also right, you are tired. So I will be brief. The ships are ready, the men are trained. It is time for you to go home.”

“ _Now_?” Sansa clutched Daenah to her breasts, and the girl squirmed. Sandor reached out, touching Sansa’s arm, guiding her grip to loosen just enough to comfort his daughter.

“Not this day. But soon. Your ship will have every comfort, your little girl will not lack for anything, nor be at risk. The captains have been instructed to stop at Braavos before making the final voyage to White Harbor, where you will land. That way you may rest from the sea is need by, and should anything ill come to pass, you will have access to any remedies you need.”

Sansa said nothing. Babes survived sea voyages and they died, there was no guarantee of either. But there was no guarantee that Daenah wouldn’t cease to breathe one night in her crib either. And Sansa longed for home, so much so now that her heart ached. She wanted her daughter to see snow, to hear wolves. She wanted her girl to grow up in Winterfell, to rebuild it from the ashes.

And with the disarray in the seven Kingdoms, there was no better time. Word of Joffrey’s death had put Sansa into so much joy she had nearly brought Daenah into the world early. She still grew hot and tingly at the thought of his clawing at his neck while he purpled and died, becoming the spectacle he was.

Daenah slept that night soundly. Sansa lay curled up with Sandor, letting him tangle his fingers in her hair softly, those auburn locks he so loved. It soothed her.

She wondered if it hurt him to hear her call their child a Stark, and not a Clegane. She could have taken his name for their child, it would have made sense to Daenerys, as the Queen knew Sansa intended to marry her Hound, someday. Someday, in the snow, not in the sand, though she would not take his name. At least, Sansa would not lose her own. She was a Stark, and would remain a Stark.

But Sansa couldn’t. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_. Her father’s words were thick in her head. Winterfell had gone too long without a Stark. Sansa would right that soon, with herself. But when she was gone, there needed to be another.

She’d give the stronghold to her daughter, even if she had sons. Even if she had an army of sons, she’d give it to her little girl- the only Stark she’d ever have. Any other child Sandor put in her belly would be a Clegane, to right to pain it must have caused him. But there _had_ to be a Stark. Just one.

“I want her to see snow,” Sansa whispered, “to enjoy the glass gardens, feel the heat that Winterfell’s walls give.” Sandor kissed the tip of her nose.

“Then we’d better win this war for your dragon Queen.” She knew he wasn’t too pleased with the ordeal, but he did not challenge her. She knew part of him burned to be back in the Seven Kingdoms as well. Something burned to watch the many men who had hurt them bleed.

“And when it’s done,” she said, tracing a finger along his hard chest, “I’ll owe you quite a bit, _ser_.”

Sandor chuckled and gripped her chin in his hand. “Careful now little lady, you know I’m no _ser_ , and I don’t think you could handle being reminded right now.” Sansa laughed, though she knew he was right.

“Later,” she said, and kissed him softly, before settling into his arms. Later, he could remind her, and they could make a little Clegane baby, a little hound to keep their little wolf company. Later they could join their houses. Later Sansa could lose herself in the snow and listen to the wolves, knowing she had her own little yellow eyed Direwolf to raise, to shape into a true lady. Not the proper lady Sansa had been molded for, but a true lady- one who did not allow a man to hit her, or to be used as a pawn for war and land.

There was always time later. But for now, Sansa was content in the dark, in her Hound’s arms, with her little girl sleeping. She was content that soon, soon she would be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that ends The Eternal Summer! I big thanks to everyone who has given it a read :)
> 
> I could have continued on, but I'd actually like to wait until I'd read further in the books (I've been so busy writing that I'm only half way through A Feast for Crows). I know a lot happens with Daenerys, and I'd like to get a feel for all that before I destroy the canon even more.
> 
> Someday, I might come back and write a sequel. I mean, I'd love to explore how Sansa rallies the north and helps Dany win the Iron Throne. I'd also like Sandor and Sansa to make a lot more babies.
> 
> I tried to do one thing a little different, and give their baby a different name. Obvious choices would of course be Catelyn for a girl, or Eddard for a boy- and I'm not going to argue those names make perfect sense. But since I've gone so far from the story, I figured I'd spice it up. Daenah (Dana) just felt like a good choice, since Sansa needs Daenerys so much in order to get home. 
> 
> Anyway, the point of all this rambling is a huge thank you to everyone for reading, a "I hope you enjoyed yourself somewhat", and that the story isn't really done. I just hope I come back to it someday.


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